Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives
by Starkiller
Summary: Post DH: Fred is a ghost with a curse on his head. Now in order to save his soul, the twins must solve a series of murder mysteries that will lead them to a dangerous secret stretching deep into the vault of the Founders' history. Fred x OC, George x Luna
1. Stick, Stock, Stone Dead

**A/N:** Beta Read by the wonders that are BloodRayne and StringofPearls, and devised with the aid of Caith. Seriously, thank you both so much for all your help!

This story is heavily based on folklore and fairytales (which is particularly evident in this chappy). Please visit Olafpriol on Deviantart! Her Fred & George fanart always inspires me to write and any fan of the twins will love her stuff, so get your butts over there ...Er, well after you've read the fic...

**EDIT:** Check my profile page for fanart, movie trailers and gift art related to the story. : )

* * *

_'There came a wind out o' the north  
A sharp wind and a snell  
A dead sleep it came o'er me  
And frae my horse I fell  
And the Queen o' the Faeries she took me  
In yon green hill to dwell.'  
_  
- Tam Lin

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Prologue

Stick, Stock, Stone Dead

**oOo**

"From _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_," he read, peeling back the yellowed page with a sullen look. Then he began.

'There is a tale as old as the moon and dark as the night, a story from a bare and barren land in the North. Above all, it is a story of how fear conquers the fearful. But it is just a story and it begins with the Winter Queen and ends, as all stories must, with Death.'

'There are many tales of the Winter Queen, but only one of them is true. It is true when they say her hair is white as snow, her eyes dark as coals, her face pale as death. It is also true when they say her face is blank and empty but for the slit where her mouth should be, like a slash in a bag of flower. It is true that she is as old as the mountains and young as a rose; that she has as many names as the stars have and no name at all, and how a cloak of white rabbits falls over her shoulder, though she wears no clothes at all.'

'But it is absolutely true what they speak of her serpent mirror, Ouroboros, the never-ending silver chain. Mirrors never lie, but neither can they be trusted, for mirrors are the trickiest of all magical objects.'

'That mirror was forged by the skilled fingers of Nogg the Nefarious, a foul Goblin who hated Muggles with a passion, and spent his hours devising new and wicked charms in which he could spill their blood. Amongst these charms was the sword Blackabar, who, in the midst of battle, would grow so heavy that his owner could no longer hold its weight and therefore perish in the fight; the silver bell Isil, whose sweet notes caused the listener to hear the death cries of loved ones who had suffered terrible fates; the ring Storge, whose wearer was turned pale with rage and envy, and saw only treachery and deceit in the actions of those around them.'

'But Nogg's greatest treasure was the Ouroboros, whose silver frame was coiled to form the world serpent devouring its own tail. Ouroboros was said to have so many spells cast upon it that even Nogg did not know its full wicked power, for he was a foolish creature who played with fire.'

'There are children in Her mirror; those who strayed too far from the forest path and found the white haired Queen with her empty eyes and slit mouth sitting lonely beside that glass; those who stepped through the mirror chasing dreams and flickering lights, dancing all the way. And behind the glass they remain, their hearts and names, and souls stolen away in a jar for the Winter Queen and her mirror to consume. That is how she survives the tick-tick-ticking of the clock, for a child's soul is much stronger than a grown-up's.'

'Once, they say, she bore two children of her own: Sol and Salazar, one bright as the sun, the other pitch as night. They amused her for a time, but the winter mists drew close on that heart and she gave the sun to the night to carve up under a bloody moon.'

'So when you look in a mirror, dear ones, remember Salazar's betrayal of brave Sol and the poor ones forgotten behind the glass, belonging to none but the dark and the Winter Queen in her cloak of white rabbits. And when you go deep into the heart of the woods in winter, you will find what became of those children. Where their blood once soaked into the earth, tall above the grass they now stand; flowers with the faces of sleeping children.'

'For the woods feel the loss of a child. But the Winter Queen does not.'

Percy Weasley closed the worn copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and looked into the faces of his audience, smiling proudly. The twins were gawking at him, open-mouthed and unimpressed.

"Hang on a minute, Perce..."

"_That's_ your tale?"

The twins folded their arms in one synchronized movement and snorted, scornfully.

"That was _crap__!_" said Fred and George nodded his agreement.

"A troll with a boulder in its gob could tell a better tale than that."

Percy huffed impatiently and dropped the picture book with its moving illustrations onto his lap. "I don't see what you two are griping about. I've read this to Ginny plenty of times and I never hear _her_ complaining."

"Yeah, but Ginny's a girl, isn't she?"

"Do you see pigtails on our heads, Perce?"

"We like battles -"

"- and giants -"

"- and werewolves -"

"- and Dark Wizards!"

"Well, the Winter Queen _was_ a Dark Wizard," Percy retorted with annoyance, but the twins were ignoring him in favour of jumping enthusiastically up and down on their beds.

"Give us a decent story, Perce!"

"Give us one of Puck Hufflepuff's ballads!"

"The Fox's trick!"

"The Vampire Cat of York!"

"The Hand of Glory!"

"You've had your story, you ungrateful wretches!" Percy snapped, leaping to his feet. "Now stop jumping on your beds and be done with it, otherwise I'll send Mother up and she can put you to sleep!" Without another word, Percy snatched up his book and stormed towards the door in a terrible sulk, flicking the light switch off on his way out the room.

The twins sat cross-legged on their beds, facing each other in the dark.

"Merlin, Percy is such a stick in the mud," said Fred sullenly. "We should take it upon ourselves to teach him how to loosen up a bit, right, George?"

"Absolutely, Fred. I reckon a couple of garden gnomes in his pants will do the trick."

"Won't they bite?"

"That's the point."

Grinning wickedly, they each slid under their bed covers and closed their eyes. But it wasn't long before the cold night and the snow falling outside on the window ledge began to fill George's highly imaginative mind with ghastly images of the spindly Winter Queen and her terrible mirror. A shadow passed close to the door and he let out a little cry of fright.

"…George? That you squeaking like a little girl?" asked Fred in a tone of amusement.

"Sod off, gitface," George muttered ruefully, but nonetheless he crawled out of bed and over to his twin's, creeping underneath the covers.

"So you think all that's true, Fred?" George asked once they were both settled in Fred's bed and staring at the ceiling.

"What's true? Percy being a total and utter prat?"

"No, we know that's true," said George. "I mean about the Winter Queen."

"Don't know. Probably not." Fred shrugged. "There's loads of stories about her flying around, mind. Suppose they've got to come from somewhere, haven't they?"

"Charlie told me that she rides a chariot pulled by seven white stags."

Fred scoffed. "That's just stupid. You're getting mixed up with Father Christmas."

"No, it's true!" George said adamantly. "And she nicks little kids from their beds, too. Probably feeds them to that mirror of hers. How do you..." He paused, then continued quietly, "How do you think the mirror eats them?"

"Dunno." Fred turned this question over, pondering carefully. "Maybe its got like big glass teeth that snap you up and tear you to shreds if you get too close."

"You're havin' a laugh," said George, though he shivered a bit at the image his brother's idea provoked. The darkness of their shared bedroom suddenly seemed impenetrable. He pulled the covers closer around his neck and squeezed his eyes shut against the hauntingly quiet snow drifting outside the window.

"Oi, you're not scared are you, Forge?" asked Fred, mockingly.

"Fat chance!" George snapped, but he didn't sound at all convincing. After a moment he turned around to face his twin. Fred's arms were crossed behind his head and he was staring out the window at the softly falling snow. His brow was slightly furrowed and he looked deep in thought. Fred rarely looked so intense as this, but George found him fascinating to watch when he did and wondered if anyone else in the world had ever been lucky enough to glimpse that marvellous look on his brother's face.

"I'd give her hell if she tried to nick you, you know," said Fred abruptly.

George looked at his twin in amazement then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Good." George grinned toothily. "Otherwise, you know, I'd have to come back and haunt you until you'd grown old, and bearded, and stinking of mothballs and old people like Auntie Muriel."

"Well that'd be better than nothing at all, right?" said Fred seriously. "I mean it's not like I can be without you, is it? Us being twins and stuff..."

George thought about it for a moment, but the idea of being one twin, and not two, left an unpleasant taste in his mouth (rather like the time he'd fallen face first into a pile of gnome dung in the garden), so he decided to push the thought, along with the story of the Winter Queen and her mirror, far out of his mind. He'd leave those kinds of thoughts for another time and place, years and years in the future when they were both bearded and wrinkled like prunes, and smelling of mothballs and old people like Auntie Muriel.

And then George said, because he felt it was suddenly necessary to say out loud, "_Ahluvyoo Fred._"

There was a pause, then a small chuckle, and George could sense Fred rolling his eyes, before he replied.

"G'night, Forge."

**oOo**

Bodies lay recumbent in the main hall. Fifty or more gazing blankly at the bewitched ceiling, indifferent to the weather. Outside in the dark grounds the grass was still flattened where fallen warriors had lain - children, dead in their pajamas.

If ever you've walked in an old graveyard where the outer walls are crumbling and ravens sit on tombstones covered in ivy, the skull and crossbones motif and epitaph barely legible, you will notice how distant death seems in comparison to the sleek new cemetery down the road, where each gravestone shines black or slate grey in the watery sunlight and the earth is freshly turned.

Here, like the new cemetery, death hung thick in the air like a shroud of acrid smoke over the castle, permeating the very walls of Hogwarts. And George Weasley knotted his fingers in his brother's hair, each red strand identical to his own, and tried in vain to pull him away from the rhythm of that timeless dance. But off he'd gone, with no path for him to follow.

And yet, in every way that counted, George too was dead.

On the surface, he would shrug and grin, and comfort, and joke, because you had to, didn't you? You can't lose yourself to the grave, even if inside you're screaming and weeping and howling like an animal. La Danse Macabre goes on, indifferent to whom it picks up in the rhythm, but often it will take a piece of your heart first before it takes the whole package.

And sometimes it buries your smile before your flesh.

**oOo**

_The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,  
For nothing now can ever come to any good..._

W. H. Auden

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** Next chapter is much longer, and thankfully less emo, and takes place five years in the future. Again, don't miss out on Olafpriol's HP fanart on Deviantart. It'll cheer you up immensely!


	2. Over the Threshold

**A/N:** This chapter has been Beta Read by BloodyRayne (Mugglenet) and StringofPearls (Fictionalley). Thank you for all the fab reviews! It really means a lot to me that people out there enjoy my wriitng, so thank you so much.

* * *

'_There's no knowing where they're rowing,  
Or which way the river's flowing!  
Not a speck of light is showing,  
So the danger must be growing...'_

- Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Over the Threshold

**oOo**

'_Phenomenon, abnormal occurrences, magic... Muggles are never satisfied with seeing, and their ears are never filled with hearing, and so they spend their lives chasing the wind. Because, to a Muggle, something that cannot be seen or heard is simply something that happens.'_

'_That is why, of all the strange creatures and prophecies of the world, Muggles are amongst the strangest of all.'_

- Sir Hector Archimedes Oddness, 1759

**oOo**

"Weasley Manor, Junction of Pentonville Road, City Road and Upper Street," Detective Nox repeated, reading from the hastily scribbled-on napkin in her hand. "I was right." She frowned. "No number."

The detective scanned the instructions on the napkin once more. The Junction was famously renowned as the location of Lyon's Angel Hotel, a beautiful old structure sporting a rather striking external dome which had become an Islington landmark in London city.

She frowned, leaning heavily on the short brass-handled walking stick. Islington was not renowned for its cheap accommodation. On the offhand close to impossible chance that the rent was in her budget, the probability of the tenants accepting her application was even less likely. People didn't get along with Detective Nox. She had the disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it and in her line of often grim work she spent more time socialising with the dead than the living.

Now as Nox walked along the busy street with the napkin in hand she hesitated, unsure as to what she should do.

It had all started when she had been approached by a peculiar man a day earlier while eating lunch in her favourite hot spot just off Leicester Square. He was an oddity in his mauve top hat and velvet tailed coat, but no one appeared to notice him (this was central London, after all). He reminded her a bit of a bird, with all his bobbing and excitable hopping about. A bird who smiled too much and needed to be eaten by a cat.

"Excuse my terrible rudeness, dear lady." He approached her. "But it appears to me that you are on a quest to discover a safe abode, am I correct?"

The detective blinked rather stupidly, a fork-full of shepherd's pie stuffing her mouth.

"An abode?" she replied, spraying pieces of food across his moth-eaten purple cravat.

"A dwelling! Dear miss, a domicile in which you can hang your hat!" the man proclaimed all too cheerfully, indicating the scattered piles of flat brochures across her table.

"Oh." She laughed a bit nervously, unsure if the man was a raving lunatic or just a friendly eccentric and whether or not she should mention that she did not, had not and never would own a hat. "Yes, I suppose I am. How did you-"

"And quite right, too! Quite right! Everyone needs a place where they can hang their hat. Very wise of you miss, an inspired decision," he said. "Excuse my rudeness for poking my metaphorical nose into your very private business, but might I inquire into your progress?"

The detective shook her head a little dumbly. "Er, no. No luck yet. At this rate I'll have to sell my soul before I can afford anything decent in London. This place here," she pointed to a photograph of a derelict looking apartment block - its windows were boarded up and tufts of grass protruded from underneath the main door, "is £450 a month and that's not including gas or electricity bills."

"Alas! This fair city is ruthless in emptying the pockets of its loyal underdogs." He put a hand to his heart and shook his head sadly, then, as if he had received a great shock, his head shot up and he turned to her, aghast. "Gracious me, how rude you must think I am. We haven't been properly introduced." Before she could protest he had clasped her hand in both of his and was shaking it vigorously. "My name is Diggle, dear lady, Dedalus Diggle. And what might yours be?"

"N-Nox," replied Nox shakily, as Dedalus was still throwing her arm up and down with terrific force. "Detective Nox."

"Ah, a Greek name. Excellent! First rate! Very lovely," he flattered. "And now that proper protocol has been made and we are such good acquaintances, I might be of service to you in your great search for a humble dwelling."

Nox grimaced. There had to be an angle somewhere. People who smiled this much always had an angle. She had written his instructions down out of politeness and let him on his way without the remotest intention of visiting the place. Odd circumstances in which she had acquired the address aside, whomsoever lived in a house named Weasley Manor either had to be a rich prat or a weirdo and Detective Nox wasn't sure which was worse. No sensible person would ever visit such a place.

And so she left for Islington at a quarter past eleven the next day.

But as she stood at the gate of the large old house, she knew immediately that there was something different about it – something exotic, something mysterious, something _dangerous._ It stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of Pentonville Road, stooping over the road like an enormous black crow. An old sign stuck out of the building at a jaunty angle, swinging on rusty hinges. Its swirling maroon letters read simply, 'Weasley Manor'.

Nox pursed her lips and whistled appreciatively, and for a brief moment the weight on her cane was eased as curiosity momentarily relieved the stiffness in her left leg. She had passed this way many times before on her way to Camden market, but in all her years Nox had never seen this building. And it was pretty hard to miss. Weasley Manor was immense, dark and Gothic in its grand architecture, and contrasted dramatically with its bright and friendly neighbour, the _Angel Hotel_.

If she had had any sense (or been any good sort of detective), Nox would have listened to the tiny voice in her head that instructed her to turn around and walk away. Unfortunately, she was a bit deaf to that voice. Nox had no problem with following orders, so long as there was a good reason why she should. She licked her lips, adjusted her weight on the cane and opened the latch on the rusty gate. The garden she stepped into was overgrown with rosebushes and weeds, and might have been beautiful if it had been tended to once in the past hundred years. She began to walk the little path that cut a narrow channel through the tangle of weeds and rosebushes towards the main entrance door. The walk seemed to take a great deal longer than she had expected – after all, the distance between the high street and the house could only have been a few feet – but she knew this had to be her imagination.

The front door had been left ajar. There was no visible doorbell anywhere, so she cleared her throat noisily and waited on the front step, and heard what sounded like a pair of voices coming from one of the rooms deep inside the murky house. The speakers did not appear to have heard her.

The main entrance hall was simply, but elegantly, decorated. A pair of floral covered armchairs stood on either side of an elongated cabinet across from which stood a tall grandfather clock. Nox poked her head further through the door for a better look. Above the cabinet hung a large portrait whose features smiled down at her from behind a pair of half moon glasses with sharp, intelligent eyes.

An unfathomable attraction caught hold of her, as though thousands of tiny invisible ropes were pulling her further into the holds of Weasley Manor; an over-active imagination in action of course. Her insatiable curiosity had been the culprit of many a misadventure, but being nosey came with the territory, Nox justified. She was a detective, after all. Not your ordinary sort, of course, but a detective all the same.

Nox hovered about on the doorstep for a minute or two longer before it became clear no one was coming to welcome her in any time soon. She peered again at the crumpled up napkin in her hand: 'Noon'. No specified day, just 'Noon'.

She glanced again at the portrait hanging above the cabinet. Social etiquette and the minor detail of breaking the law declared it unfit for a stranger to intrude upon a house in which they had no real business, no fixed appointment and no real intention of renting. No, it was a silly idea. Absurd. Crazy, even. Exactly the sort of thing her father would have thought made perfect sense.

And now her imagination, or some equally powerful force, had sunk its claws in, and Nox was finding it increasingly hard to look away from the eyes behind those half-moon glasses.

She took a breath and strode purposefully across the threshold, her navy greatcoat swinging after her.

Weasley Manor was big and quiet and empty as she walked through it. The entrance hall was so much darker than she had anticipated. The only light came from the front door, which she half expected to slam shut behind her, the cornerstone rule of every horror movie. The thought sent a shiver of fear crawling up her spine and her hand instinctively clutched the brass-handle of her cane tighter. Detective Nox had read stories that started out exactly like this; stories which began with the discovery of creepy, creaky ancient houses playing host to strange and terrible events that invariably led up to the characters' gruesome and unnatural deaths. Nox had always chuckled when the heroes in those books had been killed off in the most undignified way possible. After all, those who willingly walked into situations clearly labelled 'DANGEROUS: Do Not Enter On Pain of Death' frankly had it coming.

Outside, a red Double Decker was stopped at the traffic lights while shoppers, and tourists, and students carried on their business up and down the street. Nobody gave Weasley Manor a second look. She patted the pocket of her navy blue greatcoat, then remembered sullenly her clever decision to quit smoking the week before last.

Swallowing her fear, she crept further into the murky halls. It hadn't looked so large from the doorstep. Indeed, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light it became apparent the room opening up around her was not the room that she had seen from the doorstep. The floor was chequered in white and purple marble slabs and a huge, iron-railed staircase wound its way up from the centre of the room to the second floor and third floors. It was as if in that one flitting moment where she had crossed the threshold between London and Weasley Manor, she had stepped into another world completely.

Nox whistled again despite herself. "Hell's bells," she muttered. "It's like Dali fell down the rabbit hole and became an interior decorator…"

Then, as if somebody had turned on the lights, Nox could suddenly see that the hallway in which she was standing was in fact circular in shape, its great upward curving walls meeting around a glass dome which reminded her of the old Victorian greenhouses her father had taken her to visit when she had been a child. The circular wall was frequently broken by thirteen doors, each one a different colour and each one more bizarrely labelled than the last:

Bottoms Up

Cauldron Born

Entity Aquaticus

Mortal Peril

Halls of Fortitude

Phineas Codex

Room No. 54, Balderdash

DANGER: CERBERUS

Nox came to the last door and paused. Unlike the other brightly colour-coded doors, this one looked rather ordinary and out of place. "Cerberus?" she read. "Funny… That rings a bell."

"Is conversing with yourself an overtly Scottish thing..."

"...or are you just a bit nuts, Nox?"

Detective Nox spun on her heel towards the source of the voice.

Leaning against the curling iron rail at the bottom of the staircase stood an extraordinary looking man. He wasn't too tall and he wasn't too short; his face wasn't incredibly handsome, but it certainly wasn't unattractive either. He wore a bottle-green tailed coat and a smile more befitting a Cheshire cat than a human being. Crowning his head of thick flaming red hair sat a black top hat, the rim of which he had clasped between two gloved fingers. The hat was tipped and he smiled, but it wasn't, Nox thought, an altogether friendly smile - more the keen leer of a cat who had found a lonely mouse in the dead of night.

He was certainly an oddity, and not quite in the same way Dedalus Diggle was an oddity. There was something far more striking about the man before her. Something more _dangerous_. The very air around him seemed to crackle with excitement. Nox felt drab in his presence: she was gangly, short and lacking curves, and her messy chin-cropped hair often flopped stubbornly in her face. Her only redeeming feature, she supposed, were her clear grey eyes which she raised to meet the gaze of the Cheshire cat before her.

"Hello," she began, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. "Er… Sorry for barging in on you like this. I couldn't find a doorbell."

"There's a knocker," he replied, beaming. "Always knock three times."

"Right…" Nox replied, edging backwards towards the door without bothering to store that piece of information away. There wasn't a chance in hell she would be coming back. "Is there someone else here? I thought I heard two voices."

"I solemnly swear there are only two living souls in this house," the man replied, the grin on his face never faltering for a second. He took a step closer. "Just you and I. That's the complete truth."

Nox didn't for a moment believe the man before her had ever told a complete truth and for some reason she felt he was teasing her.

"Detective Nox G. Wolfe, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes…" She didn't remember giving her full name to Dedalus.

Suddenly, the man sprang to life. "Brilliant! I was beginning to think you weren't coming. That'd put a stopper in things. Rile him right up, that would." In three long strides he was in front of her and shaking her arm with enormous force. "Anyway, glad you could make it. Enchanted! Overjoyed! And now that I've flattered your ego a bit, do you mind if we get on with the Weasley tour? Yes? Good. Don't wander off, mind. Wouldn't want you to lose anything just yet." He laughed and began to saunter off across the marble slated floor with his hands in his pockets and a gleam in his eye.

Nox realised her jaw was hanging open a little. Closing it, she tossed a longing glance over her shoulder to the front door just as it slammed shut behind her. "Here, what's this all about?" she cried.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," he replied. "It's just a draft. Nothing to worry about. Now, which door do you want to choose? Take your pick, they won't bite." He casually presented with one arm flung towards the series of colour-coded doors. "Well, that one will a bit."

Nox stared at him uncertainly. She was loathe to trust anyone with this much confidence in themselves.

"Go on!" he pushed her gently. "No tricks, no surprises, I promise you…" He stopped and hesitated. "Well, there might be a few surprises. Can't help those, not in this house. And maybe the occasional trick, but nothing explosive."

Nox continued to stare.

"Okay," he relented, "nothing that will _kill_ you."

"You are Mr Weasley, aren't you?"

He stopped and looked at her as if she'd suddenly grown another head. "Yeah. But that's a bit formal, though, don't you think?"

_'No, I don't think it's formal enough,' _thought Nox severely, but all she could manage was continue to stare.

"You can call me George," said George, grinning. "Now, go ahead and choose your destination."

Nox sighed, defeated, and pointed towards the plainest door closest to the main staircase: 'CERBERUS'.

"Oh, not that one," said George.

"But you said any door," she retorted.

"Yeah, any door but that one," he replied.

Nox raised an eyebrow, curious. "Why?"

"Like dogs?"

"Yeah." She shrugged her shoulders. "Guess so. Not the ones the size of rats that yip and should be stood on, on sight. I've always wanted an Irish Wolf Hound myself."

"What about dogs with three heads?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Go on, choose another!"

Nox eyed him suspiciously, then scanned the other doors until she came across a pale blue door with magenta writing: 'Mortal Peril'.

"How about that one?" She pointed with her free hand.

"Ah, not that door, either." He shook his head. "Really, you're rubbish at this."

"Well, you did say any door," she argued. "What's behind that one, then? A two headed dog?"

"A tenant," George replied.

His answer surprised her. "But you said we were the only ones living here?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I said." George leered at her, that same Cheshire cat look which sent shivers up her spine.

He took her arm and began to briskly walk down a broad corridor hidden behind the enormous staircase. "Seeing as you're sodding awful at picking directions, I'll lead the way," said George in a tone which told her he had always intended to do just that.

"Look," she began, trying to keep up with his pace, "I'm sorry if I've put you out, Mr Weas-"

"_George_."

"George. An acquaintance of yours directed me here, Dedalus Diggle."

"Daft git in a top hat?" George asked.

She glanced at the top hat crowning her host's own head and stifled a laugh. "That's the one."

"Know all about it; Dedalus said you'd be perfect for the place," said George, grinning with delight. "You're a bit on the dowdy side and that limp's not going to do us much good, but you can see past your own nose." He smiled at her. "And that's got to count for something."

Soon they were winding their way through corridors and squeezing through narrow passageways, taking a left, then a right, then a left, then a right. The corridors of Weasley Manor were long and lined with a collection of the most curious artefacts: a twenty-foot long swordfish lined one wall and a stuffed bear wearing a ball in chain marked the corner ahead while a suit of armour from the 13th century stood guard at the entrance to another passageway. All along the walls there hung beautiful portraits of ladies, and bishops, and pirates, and kings. Nox knew she was moving at a brisk trot and therefore couldn't fully trust her eyes, but she was almost certain a couple of the figures in the paintings had moved.

"Halt!" cried her host, who stopped so suddenly that Nox went crashing headlong into his back. "Reflexes of a sloth, you have," grinned George.

"Cheers," Nox grunted, rubbing her stiff leg, and then a startled gasp left her throat as she looked around at their new surroundings.

A labyrinth of lush green gardens was spread out before them under a star-spattered night sky. As they moved through it, she noticed the enormous yellow moon bobbing in the air high above them, as though suspended by invisible threads. Its smirking face reminded her all too much of her flame-haired companion. Exquisitely carved stone arches separated each green avenue, upon which were headed such strange titles: Fire Weed; Aquatic Herbology; Vermicious Knids; Mandrake Farms.

"Where are we?" Nox asked in alarm. "Are we outside? It can't be getting dark already, it's only noon!"

"Huh? Oh, no. This is the greenhouse." He scratched his chin. "Must have taken a wrong turn back there. The corridors like to play tricks now and then," George informed her. "Wouldn't go poking around in here much by yourself. You're liable to lose a buttock." He shook his head sadly. "Poor Grendell."

George began to lead her down one sweet smelling arbour, where hundreds of deceptively beautiful pearl-shaped blooms grew in enormous purple bushes.

"Take a deep breath and hold it," George ordered.

"They're beautiful," Nox commented from behind the collar of her greatcoat.

"They're Violent Violets - send you into a deep coma where you live out your worst nightmares," replied George. "Nasty way to go."

"Live out?" she asked, puzzled. "You can't really live your nightmares."

"Can't you? The power of the unconscious mind is a force to be reckoned with," answered George, his Cheshire cat grin fading a little. But his change of mood was short-lived. "Well, come on then!"

He grabbed her arm again and began to twist in and out of the leafy avenues until they had made their way across the greenhouse and into another winding corridor. The place was like a rabbit warren with all its twists and turns and directions going this way and that.

"Right, here we are!" George announced at long last.

Nox looked around. "But we're back in the main hall again," she said, looking around them.

"Yeah, I thought we'd take the scenic route," chuckled her companion.

"I'd rather take a scenic route to a pub," Nox pleaded, pushing her flopping hair away from her face.

"Nah, we'll get to that later. We're heading up the staircase. You've got the first floor, remember?" He laughed at her. "Bit slow, aren't you? Come on!"

Nox began to climb the staircase, wondering what on earth she would find on the first floor considering her first glimpses of the ground, when a green and red coloured blur shot by her at an incredible speed.

"Why are you taking the stairs?" cried George as he whizzed past. "The banister's much faster!"

Nox watched him fly up the iron rail with wide grey eyes. "No, thanks," she murmured faintly. "The stairs look safer."

"Fair dos, be a miserable git, but skip the middle step," pointed George. "I don't want to have to come looking for you in Peru! Don't like the place much."

Nox took his advice and skipped the middle step, and thanked her lucky stars that she did when a brass button on her coat, on its very last thread, fell and kept on falling, straight through the step and into nothingness. As she peered at the gap closer, she thought she could see clouds and rolling hills, and small clusters of buildings.

_'It can all be rationally explained,'_ Nox assured herself, despite the giddiness in her stomach. _'There must be some mechanism on the banister and indoor greenhouses are probably some sort of trendy interior design statement.'_ She cast a wary glance back at the middle step and frowned. An explanation for that currently escaped her.

A feeling of dread began to creep over her. Swallowing thickly, Nox climbed the remaining steps to the first floor. George was nowhere to be seen.

The first floor looked remarkably normal in comparison to the rest of the house. Polished wooden floorboards gleamed beneath the afternoon sunshine, which was streaming in through a domed skylight, smaller than the one in the main entrance hall and panelled around the edge with smaller squares of brightly coloured stained glass. On the left side of the hall three rooms had been prepared: a bedroom, a dining room, and a bathroom, all perfectly normal. In fact, it was a little too normal, as if someone had tried too hard to make this part of the house look completely ordinary. Nox peered around at the large oak door to her right. Ingrained into the door frame were two identical "II" and the words:

_Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives Agency_

Nox tried the handle, but the door was locked.

"I have a proposition for you," George suddenly said, mere inches from her ear.

Fear unfurled into terror and she froze, gripping her cane in both hands. "Back off!" she warned, trying to slow her pounding heart down. "My boyfriend knows I'm here," she said, her mind racing. "I-In fact I asked him to pick me up here in ten minutes, so don't try anything funny!"

George Weasley raised his thick eyebrows at her in a withering look of disbelief. "Well, that's a whopper of a lie."

Nox felt her cheeks flush red in her annoyance. "What?" she exclaimed. "I mean, of course it isn't! He's very broad shouldered and, er, strong. Very…Very mighty."

"Mighty?"

She glared. "Yes. Notoriously mighty."

"You're single, aren't you?" stated George casually.

She didn't know how to answer that exactly. He'd called her bluff. Not that her bluff had been any sort of remarkable con. Nox hadn't had a boyfriend in longer than she liked to admit. She was intelligent, sharp-tongued, didn't suffer fools gladly and spent a good part of her job in the morgue – not what the majority of London's male population would call a catch. Still…

"S'none of your bloody business," she grunted. "How did you know?"

"Let's just say I know you by reputation," said George, crossing his arms and fixing her with a steady gaze. "A detective who offers science and conviction in the face of chaos, who turns brutal murder into intellectual puzzles…" He grinned. "Someone like that can't be much of a people person."

"Says a man who lives all alone in a great big mansion," she countered, holding his gaze.

George just beamed at her, propping his hands on his hips. "Don't sell me short just yet. But a friendly warning – you can't live in your head in a place like this," he said, spreading his arms wide, but Nox raised one open-palmed hand to him.

"Look, I don't think I can afford the rent here," she said. "I'm sorry but I'm probably wasting your time."

"There you go again," laughed George, entirely amused. "'Probably.' 'Don't think.' If you _don't think_ and you _probably_ all the time then what are you doing here in the first place?" George asked, a sterner tone to his voice now. He stuck a finger in her face. "Be more assertive. Now, what do you want to say?"

"I think you're a raving lunatic!" Nox said bluntly, then flustered at her frankness, but the man only hollered with laughter.

"Rent's fifty quid a month," he chortled. "You can move in right away."

She gawked. "Fifty quid a month? But how? How can you afford to charge that?" asked Nox, taken aback. "What's the catch? Have the last five tenants mysteriously disappeared and turned up under the floorboards?"

"And your blunt personality finally makes its appearance! Nah," George said, and plunked a hand on her head. "Disappearances are the least of your worries here."

Nox narrowed her dark eyes in suspicion. "You're a bit cryptic yourself."

"I bloody hope so," said George, looking somewhat offended. "I've never tried to be anything but! Now, back to my proposition."

He produced a large, intricately designed key from his pocket and locked it into the keyhole, turning it first to the right, then twice to the left, and then back again to the right before the door opened with a click.

"Come on in! I reckon we've wasted enough time running about the place with your stumpy Muggle legs and that flipping useless cane of yours," George huffed and pushed her inside.

"Muggle?" she frowned, ignoring his comment about her cane. "What's a Muggle?"

"I don't have time to answer all your questions."

"So far you haven't answered one!" Nox retorted angrily.

The large office they entered curved at one end and split into three separate factions with a little room at the back, visible through a long plain glass window.

"That's the secretary's room," George explained.

"Then what's the rest?" Nox asked, utterly perplexed by the grand interior of the office room.

"Well, that," he pointed towards a large rosewood desk situated in front of the room's broad curving window, "is your desk. And this," he leaned against a desk carved of pale green rosewood, "is mine."

She squinted at the large golden "G" painted on the front of the desk. "Just in case you forget your own name?"

George shrugged. "It happens occasionally."

Nox turned to acknowledge the desk's red twin. A large golden "F" adorned its front. "Who's that for then?" she asked, curiously.

"You'll meet him soon enough," he replied, a little too cryptically for her liking.

"And your proposition?" She couldn't help it, her interest was piqued now.

George grinned. "If I told you I could help get your dad's old detective business off the ground in return of a small favour, what would you say?"

Nox eyed him carefully. "I'd say that'd depend on the favour."

George swiftly caught her gaze; his eyes were no longer bright and cheerful but dark and deadly serious.

"Hire me."

"H-hire you?" spluttered Nox. "Why would you want me to do a thing like that? You're loaded!"

George's grin returned and he laughed heartily. "To join you in your adventures, to solve mysteries that beggared belief, the novelty of having a Muggle job. Take your pick. What do you say?"

"I say you're barmy!" Nox clutched her head. "I don't work with people. I'm not a _people_ person. People get under my feet with their people-ish issues and I don't have time for them." She looked him dead in the eye. "Look here, Mr Weasley, the fact of the matter is I've already got a secretary. I've had partners before and it hasn't worked out. What makes you so special?"

"A remarkable number of things, actually," he said modestly. "But I definitely have one thing your previous partners didn't have."

"And that is…?"

"Your cane," he said. "Hire me or I'll stand on it."

"How did you get that?" she spluttered, gawking at the brass-handled cane in his hand. She could have sworn it had been in her hand only a moment ago.

George just leaned back on his desk and smiled, twirling the cane between his fingers. "Believe me when I say hiring me is in your best interests. I reckon I've got something that'll come in very handy in your field of expertise."

"And how is that?" asked Nox, suspicion creeping into her voice again.

"Put it this way," started George, "if I were a _paranormal_ _detective_ solving the crimes and mysteries of the dead, it'd come in handy if I could, you know, _see_ the dead, don't you think?" He walked towards her and placed a round object into the palm of her hand. "Scarf that and you'll be top of your league… uh, or whatever competitory fields paranormal detectives run in anyway."

Nox stared at the object in the palm of her hand, incredulously. It looked like a Jammy Dodger. And on further inspection, she announced, "It's a Jammy Dodger."

George watched her, placidly.

"You really think I'm going to eat this?" asked Nox, arching her eyebrows. "After everything I've seen here?"

George just shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to twirl her cane in his hand. "Everything you've seen here is exactly why you should and you _will_ eat it."

Nox thought back to the excitable Dedalus Diggle, the night-garden with its Violent Violets, the portrait of the old man with the half-moon glasses, and of the room labelled Mortal Peril. Curiosity gripped Nox like a vice, and her heart skipped a beat. There was something about this house, about this man that she _had_ to know more about.

She swallowed the biscuit whole.

"Well?" George inquired, an eager light in his eye.

"Tastes a bit mouldy," Nox admitted, grimacing.

"Sorry about that," said George, handing her back her cane. "He prefers them that way."

"Who does?" asked Nox.

"I does," replied a new voice.

Her eyes darted towards the red rosewood desk with the gold painted "F", the owner of whom was leaning casually against the wood as if it were the most normal thing in the world for the ghost of a dead man to do.

"Hi." He waved cheerfully. "Fred Weasley."

"Oh," she said, and then added to fill the silence, "That's a good name." A voice in the back of her mind informed her that if all the cryptic writers, ghost hunters and people in the world who had ever wondered what it might be like to meet a ghost could have heard her, they would have shook their heads in disbelief. As she struggled to form coherent thoughts, her tongue felt heavy and dry and the brass handle of her cane became slippery with sweat. "You're a ghost."

"Well I'm definitely not a fish," said Fred.

George tilted his head to one side. "You look like you're about to faint."

"I've never fainted before. When you faint do your legs become weak and your head feel light?"

The Weasley brothers exchanged a look and then nodded, nonchalantly.

"Sounds about right."

"Ah. Then yes, I'm about to faint."

And she hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. The twins stared at the undignified heap for a long moment before George cursed loudly.

"Damn it," he groaned. "She didn't scream."

"But she did faint!" Fred countered. "That's five Galleons. Cough up!"

**oOo**

'_...For the rowers keep on rowing,  
And they're certainly not showing  
Any sign that they are slowing…'_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** Please review and let me what you think! All critique, good or bad, is really appreciated.


	3. Casebook 01: Twins

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for your fab reviews, guys!

Just to clear things up a bit: George has just turned 25 in this story (the first casebook takes place in June; his birthday is April 2nd according to canon). Fred is technically 25 too, only he still looks the age he died, which was 20. It's a bit sad that George is aging while Fred remains the same. : (

**Notes for the character of Detective Nox:** I realise that Nox is a Muggle and that only witches, wizards and Squibs can see ghosts, but this will be addressed later, I assure you. It's actually quite integral to the plot. For those curious, Nox is 23. Oh, and a Jammy Dodger is a classic British biscuit filled with something professing to be jam.

Beta Read by BloodRayne and StringofPearls (cross-posted on Mugglenet Fanfiction, Fictionalley and Firewhiskey).

* * *

_'There is more in this world than Humans.  
More than what Humans can sense.  
But...  
Every now and again  
A Human will come up against those things  
That Humans can't sense.'_

- xxxHoLic

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
Casebook 01: Twins

**oOo**

Detective Nox wasn't one for fainting. True, she didn't get along with gravity very well, but she tended to associate swooning with wet useless heroines who ran away from their stepmothers and got shacked up in a house with seven random blokes after a burst of singing with a herd of friendly forest animals who were so sickly sweet it made Nox choke on her own sarcasm. Moreover, considering her line of work it was downright embarrassing fainting in front of ghost.

The problem was not the shock of seeing a ghost precisely, but Detective Nox had a very straightforward way of thinking. To her, the world was an open clock with all its sprockets and springs laid out on a table, every one finely polished and with its own purpose: together they made the world run like clockwork. A ghost was like an extra spring in the works or that extra scart plug you sometimes found in the back of a television set that had no purpose, but for some unfathomable reason the damn telly didn't work without it. That's what a ghost was, she thought bitterly: an extra scart plug. Phenomena and imagination were dirty words to a realist like Nox. Having an imagination, Nox thought, was a bit like having a sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on.

Distantly, she could perceive several voices conversing beyond the smog in her vision and the pounding in her ears. Her legs felt numb, like blocks of ice weighted to the floor, and for a moment an irrational fear gripped her like a vice: what if she had taken a bad fall and broken her stupid legs? Or maybe she had been tied up and taken prisoner in that strange Weasley house where day was night and fashion fell beyond all comprehension, not that she had any right to criticise another person's wardrobe.

And all because of an extra bloody scart plug.

Nox wondered vaguely when she had turned into such a pessimist.

"Fancy that, still out cold," a familiar voice proclaimed casually from above.

"You don't say," echoed its twin.

A pair of footsteps rushed noisily into the room, each thunderous stride causing Nox's head to pound with a dull pain. She kept her eyes closed and listened intently.

"George!" cried a flustered woman. "I heard from Diggle that you… Oh, good grief. Fred, what in blazes have you done this time?"

"Hello, Hermione," said Fred with a small sigh of dismay. "Fancy seeing you here. Again. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Anybody would think Mum's paying you to spy on us. So go on, what's old Dedalus said then?" he asked her irritably. "Should have known that daft prat couldn't keep his trap shut for long."

"Only that you were busy on a new business venture with a _Muggle_," the woman called Hermione replied anxiously. "But never mind that now, what on earth have you two done to the poor woman?"

"Nothing much," replied George airily, "just the usual."

"Dare I ask what the usual entails?" Hermione asked him suspiciously. "And why are you _sitting_ on her?"

Nox felt a soft, cool hand gently press against her forehead. She wondered if her walking stick or anything relatively solid and heavy was nearby so she could whack the owner of the offending hand before making a run for it.

"It was only a tour and a formal introduction," the younger, craftier voice of Fred Weasley answered the question this time, and Nox was positive the owner had been the one responsible for scaring her half to death and worse, rearranging the laws of blissful ordinariness.

"And a Jammy Dodger," added George.

"Those were mine, by the way," grumbled the other. "Hope you plan on reimbursing me."

"Blimey, one biscuit! You can live without one mouldy biscuit, Fred."

"Cheers, mention the 'L' word," Fred lamented melodramatically.

"Sod off." George laughed. "Dead or not, I won't have an over-emotional sod for a twin."

"Oh, stop it, the pair of you! This is serious," the woman ordered hotly. "What is it exactly that you plan on doing with her? She is a Muggle, after all." There was an impatient sigh. "The two of you could get into a lot of trouble if you aren't careful. Do you honestly think the Ministry is just going to allow you to go around haunting poor Muggles in broad daylight without any repercussions?"

Fred snorted. "Put a cork in it, Hermione. We're keeping her, I like her. Got character, this one. Go get your own Muggle play-thing."

"She is not a pet, Fred," the woman protested. "She is a human being."

"She's a funny looking Muggle. Looks more like a twelve-year old boy," said George, and Nox felt a finger prod her cheek none too gently. "Her name's Nox."

"Nutty Nox," Fred corrected. "Collapsed the moment she saw me. Frankly, I'm a little offended."

"Saw you?" the woman asked in alarm, then her tone turned accusatory. "But that can't be possible for a… Wait, what did you do?"

"Hermione, I'm insulted you'd think we'd stoop so low as to work magic on a poor defenceless Muggle," said Fred. "We did of course, but I'm still offended you'd think it."

George continued. "Of course, it wasn't all our doing. Dedalus got it right for once, didn't he? He's finally found a Muggle suited for our new business venture," George declared with a note of satisfaction, and perhaps Nox was mistaken, but he sounded quite relieved in addition.

"And what business venture is that, exactly?" Hermione inquired suspiciously. "In any case, you're hardly going to convince anyone of taking any kind of job on by scaring them witless. I doubt she'll be very pleased with you when she wakes up. I certainly wouldn't be."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, Hermione," said Fred despairingly. "We've already got Percy in the family."

"Speaking of which, we're your brothers now," George reminded her. "And as such, we can treat you with the same decorum and level of respect we treat our other dear siblings —"

"— and legally get away with it," Fred added.

"You're both terrible," Hermione hissed indignantly.

"We try," the twins chorused.

With a pained grunt of displeasure, Nox began to stir. She'd just about had enough of this farce. All she wanted now was a cigarette and a coffee. And possibly a CAT scan.

"Look now, she's coming round," said Hermione. "Fred, get back. Go and hide in a closet or something."

"Oh, cheers very much!" snapped Fred icily. "Donated all your sympathy to house-elves and kept none for the dead, ay?"

"_Shhh!_"

Nox slowly opened her grey eyes, wincing as the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window stung her vision. The newcomer was leaning over her and looking very concerned. She was quite a pretty young woman; younger than Nox had expected. Her bushy brown hair was gathered into an attractive, albeit slightly haphazard, bun at the back of her head, and her brown eyes revealed an intelligent but fiery character. Nox was relieved to find no trace of the deceptive Cheshire cat leer in this person's face.

"Where am I? Who are you? Have I joined a cult? " she slurred gruffly, not daring to look anyone in the eye lest they shove another Jammy Dodger, or another equally delectable confectionary, under her nose.

"Weasley Manor, George Weasley and not that I know of, but you do look the type to join one," answered George, who was sitting comfortably across her knees.

Detective Nox propped herself up on her elbows and looked into the freckled face of the man. "Oh. You. Yes. How could I forget?" Her eyes found Fred and her stomach did an Olympic flip. "I need a pint. Sobriety has finally gotten to me."

George's grin grew wider. "Great! We're renting the place out to a detective with a drinking problem. That's good stereotyping for you."

"Come on, you can do a bit better than that, can't you," cried Fred suddenly, leaping forwards. "Give us something a little less cliché."

Nox peeked through a gap in her fingers at the ghostly head poking right through George Weasley's chest. Despite its silvery and translucent appearance, she could not help but notice the family resemblance between the spectre and the flame-haired landlord of Weasley Manor. Nox squinted at the protruding head, and her heart sank. Yes, there it was - the same Cheshire cat leer. As she stared, her senses suddenly came back to her. In her sudden panic, Nox attempted to scramble across the floor on her backside, and winced when a crooked nail in the floorboards tore the back of her trousers.

"_Christ's sake_, what are you?" she demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the peculiar trio, one of which was still content to sit astride her legs.

Hermione tangled her fingers in her bushy hair and moaned, "Oh, for crying out loud, I just knew there would be a situation the moment I talked to Diggle. You two are in a lot of trouble with the Ministry!"

"You're in trouble with the Police is what!" cried Nox furiously. "Is this some sick joke? Are you a —"

"Trick?" said George. "No."

"Light effect?" said Fred. "No."

"Prank pulled for a BBC daytime game-show? No." George shrugged his shoulders. "I don't even know what a BBC is. One of those daft things Muggles do on the telly-box, I guess."

Fred chuckled evilly at the look on her face. "Trust me; we've been through this a few times, though most Muggles didn't get across the threshold and the ones who did ran screaming from the house within the first three minutes."

Nox couldn't think of an intelligent reply, and instead remained on the floor, opening and closing her mouth and blinking quite stupidly.

"I thought you were supposed to be a Paranormal Detective," Fred remarked in a mocking tone, dripping with sarcasm. "Shouldn't you be used to stuff like this?"

"Don't be rude," Hermione warned him severely, before turning back to the fairly terrified detective. "I am Hermione Granger," the young woman introduced herself very formally, holding her hand out, "and I'm deeply sorry for the mess these two heathens have gotten you into. I regret to say they are my brothers in-law. I'm sure you must feel a little, er, unnerved…"

But Nox did not feel convinced, feeling very much like a cat hinged on a tree with three dogs lurking in wait at the bottom. "Really? Unnerved. Well. For a moment I was concerned I was losing my mind, but so long as I'm only a little unnerved we're all dandy," she said, glaring. "What gives you the right to lock someone in a house, terrify them out of their wits and then _sit_ on them?" she shouted, pointing a trembling finger at George. "You rich mentalists think you can get away with anything with your extra scart plugs and your bleeding springs flying out of their graves! I'll tell you what you can do with your proposition. You can take it up to York, nail it to a frisbee and throw it over a bleeding rainbow!"

Fred beamed. "See, isn't she great? Nutty Nox! Completely mental."

"You haven't even heard our terms yet," said George, climbing to his feet and offering his hand to help her up. "We swear it'll be profitable."

"Don't be ridiculous, George," said Hermione. "You'll be coming with me to the Ministry to have your memory of this whole experience removed, won't you, Detective?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Nox. "Memory removed, business with the dead. It's an impossible decision. I can only hope that when I flip a coin to decide it somehow explodes and kills me."

"Hope away," said George, "but then, you've already proved yourself a nosey git beyond all doubt. It's not like we dragged you in here, is it? Came of your own accord, didn't you?"

Fred leered, darkly. "Honestly, who just walks into a gothic old mansion and eats a dodgy looking biscuit from a strange bloke in a top hat?"

"I fail to see the humour," muttered Hermione.

"That's fine. I'll observe it for the both of us," said Fred evenly.

"Look, if you don't mind, Hermione," began George, who was ushering the other woman towards the door, "we need to discuss the finer details of our business arrangement with our detective here. You can tell Dedalus everything's sorted and that he can stop looking now. It'll save us a trip to the Ministry."

Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She wasn't in any great hurry to subject a somewhat naïve-looking Muggle to the twins, but as she was running late enough as it was, it didn't appear that she had much choice.

"All right," Hermione conceded, "but I'll be in to check up on you later, at which point I'd like a full explanation as to why you're in such desperate need of a Muggle detective," Hermione told George, wagging a finger forebodingly in his face.

"Right. Well, your frequent visits are always an inspiration to us, Hermione," replied George, pushing her not too gently out the door.

"Don't know what we'd do without your subtly offered criticisms and patronising comments everyday," called Fred, with a cheerful wave. "You truly brighten my week, adored sister of mine!"

Before Hermione could retort, the door of the office was slammed shut in her face.

Nox stared at the twins in horror. "So I'm not special. This is how you treat everyone."

"No." Fred shook his head. "This is how we treat people we _like_."

"I'd hate to see how you treat your enemies," muttered Nox, edging as far away from him as was possible in the Weasleys' office.

It was bad enough meeting George Weasley in all his flamboyancy and sheer strangeness, but to discover his twin — and not your usual flesh and blood twin, but a ghost (and one with a terrible, sarcastic sense of humour) — was far worse. Nox scrutinised him from a safe distance. What was more, she sensed the spectral twin was a level above his brother on the scale of cruelty and mischief-making.

Fred caught her eyes and smirked devilishly.

'_Definitely the crueller twin,'_ thought Nox, narrowing her eyes at the silvery figure across the room. _'He looks like one of those fox tricksters in Aesop's fables.'_

"Well, go on!" George suddenly exclaimed above her, grinning. "Get your arse off the floor and try your new desk out."

Hesitantly, Nox complied and walked stiffly around to the other side of the desk, where a large, comfy-looking armchair sat. She sat down, and pulled herself towards the desk, revelling for a moment in the wonderful feeling of authority which filled her. Nox had never had her own desk before, much less an entire office.

The Weasley twins exchanged a knowing smile.

"Does this mean you're actually going to answer some of my questions?" she asked bluntly. "Because believe me, I have a few."

"I'll bet you do," said Fred, rolling his eyes.

"Ask us any questions and we'll answer them to the best of our ability," said George, leaning against his own desk.

"All right, then," said Nox, putting on a very afflicted authoritarian voice. "Tell me who you are."

Fred and George looked puzzled.

"I'm Fred and that's George."

"It's easy to tell us apart."

"He's got one ear."

"And he's dead."

"Got that or do you need us to draw you a diagram?"

"No, I don't mean names," grunted Nox in frustration. "Who are you lot? More to the point, _what_ are you lot? This whole house is like a page out of a children's fantasy book."

"It's got character," Fred boasted.

"Westminster Abbey has character. Big Ben has character. This place has fur and a _pulse_," she replied. "Look, I might not be the greatest detective in the country," and that was not modesty; Nox had even failed to get past her first year probationary period, "but I'm not _blind_."

"You are a bit stupid, though," Fred pointed out.

George spread his arms out as if he were about to plead with her. "We would've told you earlier, but the way things work with Muggles and ghosts — and then nosy old Hermione appeared and we're under strict orders to keep this in as tight a circle as possible."

"See, there was an event a few years back," Fred interrupted. "A few things happened, one being my current condition."

"Obviously," said Nox, cocking an eyebrow. "But you stayed behind? Why?"

Fred goggled at her bluntness. "Merlin's clogs, you are nosey."

George interjected. "Cutting a long story short, Fred recently upset the wrong person, if you can call it a person. Someone with a bad temper and a lot of clout."

"I can believe that," said Nox derisively. "What did he do, exactly?"

Fred cleared his throat and said, "That's not important."

"What is important is _this_." George tossed an old newspaper onto the desk in front of her. It was torn and yellowing, and the publishing date read 1998. Nox looked back at the twins, utterly bemused. "That's your dad, right?" said George, sticking his finger at the large black headlines scrawled across the page.

Nox gripped the paper in both hands, and her heart clenched.

'_Psychic Snatched?'_

'_Mad Rozza, the Daily Mail's long-running psychic  
columnist and infamous Paranormal Detective, was reported  
as missing last week when his bike was discovered  
off road on the M8 to Milngavie. "Mr McRozen has  
always been renowned for his eccentricities," stated  
Glasgow Chief of Police Douglas Thickley, "While it  
is true that we have dealt with several disappearances  
over the past year, I'm quite positive this latest incident  
is completely non-related." It was implied that McRozen  
may be purposefully keeping a low profile in order to  
avoid insurance companies after his 1976 Harley-Davidson  
collided with a silver Bentley outside of Glasgow city.'_

Nox stopped reading. "How did you get this?" she asked quietly.

"Dug it up."

"We have our ways."

Nox sighed and pushed the paper away, her face becoming stony again. "My father was a nut job. He's been missing for years. Either he's running away from all the debt he left behind, or he's broken his bloody neck somewhere. The only thing he left me was his failing business. So if it's him you're looking for, sorry to disappoint you."

"It's not your dad we're after," said George, his tone a little gentler now, "it's you."

"Believe me, we would've avoided involving mindless Muggles if we could have, but tragically, we can't, and _you_ did find the house." Fred pointed at her. "You passed over the bloody threshold. Not many Muggles can do that. And the couple who did manage didn't stick around long after."

"It's been a laugh watching them try, mind," said George, reminiscing fondly.

"You keep calling me a Muggle," said Nox curiously. "What is that?"

"Non-magic folk," George answered.

"Toss-pots who can't hold a wand and generally can't see past the ends of their noses," added Fred jovially, oblivious to the offence he had caused to his guest.

Nox glared at him. "Shouldn't have asked."

George grinned slyly at her. "I'd like to prove it, but unfortunately I am prohibited from performing any magic in front of you until you sign this." He produced a crumpled piece of parchment from the pocket of his bottle-green coat jacket. "This isn't something you sign lightly, mind. Nasty repercussions if you go back on your word in our world."

"Horrible tortures, lots of flailing about," added Fred, demonstrating by dragging a finger over his neck and crossing his eyes.

Nox eyed the parchment suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. "You still haven't given me a reason not to run out of this building screaming."

"The thing is," Fred coughed awkwardly, "the person who was so briefly referred to earlier that I may or may not have offended–"

"The bloke with the clout?" said Nox, arching one eyebrow high in disbelief.

"Yeah. Well, it turns out that person's got a bit of a grudge against me. And when I say grudge, I mean curse." Fred put a hand on his heart and beamed with pride. "Frankly, I'm honoured! In any case, there's a task I've got to complete, which will get me off the hook. Call them cases, if you like. And we need a detective to help us out."

"Specifically a _Muggle _detective," George added.

Nox frowned. "Specifically?"

He nodded. "It's a very specific curse."

Nox wasn't at all convinced that Fred did not deserve to get his punishment, whatever it was. He was obviously a character who either couldn't care less about offending someone or didn't notice at all. Which was worse she couldn't decide. _'What an old fox,'_ she thought.

"So where do me and my dad come into all of this?" she asked.

"Right, to the juicy bits," said George, rubbing his hands together. "Your dad was a Paranormal Detective, right? Well, he also dabbled in other arts, and wrote a few books on his findings, too."

"He was a lunatic," Nox commented, dryly. "He never sold a book in his life."

"Ah, maybe not in the Muggle world!" cried George. "Actually, your dad was a bit of a genius, believe it or not."

Fred nodded his agreement. "Especially for a Squib."

"Oi-oi, slow down: I still don't understand any of this," she protested, feeling quite flummoxed. "I'm not even sure what it is you're asking me to do. What do you mean, 'Muggle world'? There's only the one world."

George put his hands down on the desk and leaned far across it towards her. "Hire us as your loyal assistants and help us get Fred off the hook. That's all we're asking. Just a couple of trivial, menial cases," he said in his most persuasive tone of voice.

"It's good karma," said Fred, who, Nox realised with a start, was leaning far over the back of her chair. "And I'll be _ever_ so grateful." He smiled charmingly.

Nox shivered and slunk further into her chair, away from the leering ghost above her.

"Thanks, but I don't think I could handle your gratitude. Besides," she added, "I'm not a reclusive genius, I'm a reclusive cynic. The only people I can stand working with for long periods of time are the dead ones, but until now every dead client I've had has had the good manners to keep their mouths shut. Now you've taken that away from me. I hope you're very happy."

"Ecstatic," Fred smirked, evilly.

"Think about it, where else in London are you going to rent out cheap offices and a place to crash?" George implored her. "Give us a week's trial at least."

"No, I don't know…" Nox trailed off hesitantly.

She could hardly believe that she was even contemplating agreeing to the Weasley twin's proposition. The whole story, indeed, her entire situation, was completely ludicrous. Nevertheless, so was turning down cheap rent and offices in central London. _'Good God, I can't be this shallow,'_ Nox thought shamefully. _'This city's really dried up my ethics.'_

Just then, a terrible shrieking, like that belonging to an old steam engine's whistle, filled the room. Fred, George and Nox clamped their hands over their ears to shut out the awful, high-pitched noise.

"Something's got to be done about that," muttered Fred irritably, when the din had ceased at last.

"What _was_ that?" asked Nox, rubbing her ears.

"Someone's at the front door," George exclaimed, looking quite surprised.

It was an odd look for his face, one that didn't quite seem as though it belonged. Although Nox had only known him for a little over an hour, she hadn't thought anything in the world could surprise George Weasley. His confidence and self-assurance was so complete that he gave off an aura that felt nothing short of inhuman — an impression perhaps responsible for her feeling more easy in the twin's presence than she should have felt (all things considered).

Fred glanced at his brother askance. "Who? It can't be Hermione again already."

"Don't be daft," replied George. "Everyone we know either Apparates here or uses the Floo Network." He began to stride purposefully out the room and down the main stairs, Nox and the ghost of Fred Weasley following from a distance.

Nox finally came to linger at the foot of the broad marble stairway, making sure to keep her brass-handled cane firmly between her and the form of Fred's pearly-white ghost. George opened the door.

On the garden path stood a slight, dark haired, fair faced figure in a pale green summer dress. Her round, willowy eyes appeared just as surprised to see George as he was to see her.

"Oh…hello," said the girl distantly. "Have I found the right place?"

George frowned. "That depends what you're looking for."

She reached her arm out to George, depositing a small scroll into his hand. George unravelled it, and Nox noted with interest that the girl would not come any closer to the door. She moved forward to stand behind him in the doorway.

"The instructions on your scroll led me here," the girl explained earnestly.

George stared at the parchment, and for a moment, he seemed too lost for words.

"My sister is lost," the girl continued in a trembling voice. "She has been lost for a whole year. I have to find her, please, you must be able to help me."

"Sorry, but you sure you've got the right place?" George asked. "We haven't advertised our services yet. And besides, we're not exactly in the business of searching out _living_ relatives."

"But this must be the right place!" the girl cried, her pale cheeks flushing in her sudden distress. Something in her voice was not quite right. "This is the address given," she said, and pointed at the silver writing on the parchment.

George certainly couldn't argue with her against that. Across the parchment was printed, in very official looking silvery letters: 'Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives.' George frowned, muttering quietly. "But we only just came up with the title this morning…"

"Please." The girl reached out a hand to his and touched it gently. Nox saw George flinch at the girl's touch. "No one else has been able to help me, and I haven't much time left."

Her large, pale eyes were beginning to fill with tears. George's face flushed red.

"All right," he resigned at last. "We're just finalising things here at the moment, but I'll see what I can do. We should be up and running within the week. Have you got a contact number or address?"

The slight girl shook her dark head solemnly and clasped both his hands between her own icy ones in earnest. "Oh no, that won't do any good at all. You must come and visit us immediately, please! I will pay any sum you ask."

Before George could reply, he was shunted out of the way by an uncharacteristically animated Nox, who was shaking the girl's hand excitably.

"Hello there," said Nox very pleasantly. "I'm Detective Wolfe, the proprietor of this great establishment. Would you care to discuss our business over lunch, perhaps? Or maybe tea? I'm sure my partner here can prepare a pot right away, if you'd just like to step inside."

A gust of wind whipped up the street towards them, blowing through the trees and the bushes in the garden. The pale girl shivered and began to dig deep into her bag. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out an ornate picture frame with a photograph of a country road leading up to a beautiful old estate building hedged by blossoming rosebushes. The sign on the gate read 'Rosewood Estate'.

"I haven't any time left. I must get back." The girl enclosed Nox's hands around the picture frame. Reluctantly, Nox accepted the strange gift, wincing slightly at the girl's icy touch. "I'll expect you tomorrow afternoon. Three rooms will be prepared for your stay," the girl said hastily, and then bowed deeply before walking back down the garden path and joining the stream of people along the busy main street.

"Sudden change of heart?" George turned to scowl at Nox. "_'Tea-boy'_?"

"I did you a favour," said Nox crossly. "That's _Audra Beckinsale_. She's practically royalty. Do you have any idea how much money she is? I mean, _worth?_ Er, I mean… Oh, look, do you have any idea how obscenely wealthy her family is? Even her _pets_ have servants. She's the type of wealthy girl who rides horses, plays the viola, embroiders hats – that sort of thing. You could make a lot of money working for someone like that."

George shrugged his shoulders and turned inside. "We've got other interests. Besides, does it look like we're short on cash?" He tipped his hat back and grinned wickedly at her.

"Of course, _you_ on the other hand could probably do with a steady cash flow," said Fred.

Nox narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you bribing me, Weasley?"

Fred raised his hands defensively. "Not at all!" he laughed. "But money does seem to have a hold over your character. Wouldn't you say so, George?"

"I'd definitely say so, Fred. Leopards can change their spots after all," chuckled George, "given the right incentive."

"Well, when you haven't seen much of it, you tend to appreciate it more," replied Nox sheepishly. "How is it that you already have a client, anyway?" She peered at the business scroll which Fred was reading over George's shoulder. "Hey, hold on — my flippin' name's on that."

"Yeah, I know," muttered Fred, staring at the card with grim curiosity.

Nox bristled with anger. "Who the hell gave you the right to–"

"I didn't," he replied stiffly.

George looked equally as puzzled. "But if you didn't, then who did?"

"I don't know," Fred replied, honestly, looking a bit troubled.

Nox watched the ghost's profile for a moment, attempting to read his thoughts. "Will you take the job?" she asked.

"That depends," he replied slyly, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Are you in or out?"

Nox had never felt so put on the spot before. She didn't want to make such a big decision rashly — it all seemed too good and too strange. Instead she glanced around the circular entrance hall in search of something, _anything_ that could help her make a decision, when her eyes once again fell upon the portrait of the old bearded man whose eyes twinkled kindly out at her.

Nox sighed. _'Well, it's not as if I've got anything to lose. The rate I'm going, the business is going to go bankrupt anyway,'_ she thought miserably, thinking back to her cramped and dingy one-bedroom apartment, and the black mould growing on the ceiling. _'Maybe this is a change in fortune.'_

Nox stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Well… that girl really did look like she needed help, didn't she?"

The twins whooped and cheered, and even attempted a flying high-five, which only resulted in George crashing head-first through his brother's semi-corporeal body.

"Hey, hey! Wait. Yes, I'm in, but only for a trial week," said Nox sternly. "I'm not signing anything until then."

The Weasley twins turned to her in unison, identical Cheshire cat leers upon their identical fiendish faces, and said together, "We'll see about that."

**oOo**

**

* * *

**

**A/N: **Hope that wasn't too heavy on the dialogue! The next chapter takes the twins and our detective to Dartmoor in Devonshire, and the first of the Twin Vice Paranormal Detective Agency's (which will henceforth be shortened to "TVPD's" because I'm lazy) casebooks, so it's quite heavy on action. Thanks again for reviewing, like every other author I absolutely love all kinds of feedback. Don't know what I'd do without your support, so thank you!


	4. Casebook 01: Apples

**A/N: **Thank you very much for the kind reviews! This chapter is dedicated to **Leaviel **for her picture of Twin Vice fanart (please go and check it out on Deviantart! I love it and I'm so incredibly touched) and **Riftdoggy** for shamelessly plugging my fanfic!

This chapter Beta Read by BloodRayne and StringofPearls.

Anyways, let the murder mystery of Rosewood begin...

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
Casebook 01: Apples

**oOo **

Fred and George were ready on that appointed Saturday at Kings Cross Station. It had been remarkably easy to locate Rosewood Estate due to their client's renowned stature in society. Nox was already waiting at the designated platform beside a train bound for Dartmoor, Devonshire when they arrived. A large rucksack bursting at the seams was slung across her shoulder. Being short and a little weedy, she looked quite funny under the enormous bulk.

"Blimey, Nox," Fred remarked, gawping. "Just planning on staying there a year or two?" He poked his silvery head into the pack and rummaged about a bit, calling back to her every now and again, "What's with all this junk? Ooh, what does this do?" and, "Crimeny, do you actually read this trash?"

Ears burning, Nox shuffled away from the spectre and heaved the pack off her shoulders. "I've come prepared, that's all," she defended, as the bag landed with a clank on the platform floor.

George gave Fred a despairing look then dragged the heavy luggage onto the train with exaggerated huffs and puffs.

Together, George and Nox walked down the narrow aisles, searching for a relatively quiet carriage while Fred slid easily through the seats as if they were was nothing but air in his way. When they were seated comfortably, Nox turned to Fred, looking thoroughly bewildered.

"Are you sure you should be out in the open like this?" she asked him, checking that the other passengers on board hadn't noticed the semi-transparent figure sitting across from her.

"Don't worry about it." Fred waved his hand in the air with an air of negligence. "Muggles can't see ghosts, remember?"

"Unless they consume mouldy Jammy Dodgers," grumbled Nox, as she leaned her head against the window. "Which, for your information, had me locked in the loo for a good hour yesterday."

Fred snorted. "Glad you didn't move in last night then. We only have the one bathroom, and that would be a terrible loss." He smiled cheekily at her. "For you and George, of course. One of the benefits of being a ghost is the non-existence of habitual bowel movements."

"Alas! I must admit I envy you that, Fred," said George with dramatic flair.

Nox reached deep inside her jacket, pulling out a little red notebook and a chewed pen, which she repeatedly tapped against her knee.

"Alright, well on to the subject at hand," she began and pushed her flopping hair out of her eyes. "What do we know about the case so far?"

Fred and George had both whipped out a piece of parchment and a quill, seemingly from thin air, and were pretending to jot down notes.

"We know that the rich and handsomely splendid Miss Audra Beckinsale is something of a royalty, don't you know!" Fred heartily declared, as he dipped his quill into a bottle of ink. "Dashing creature, it will be absolutely spiffing to make her acquaintance. What say you, old boy?"

"I do agree, Fred," said George, clutching his quill to his chest. "A fine filly; really top notch!"

During this to and fro, a grey-faced ticket-master had slid back the carriage door and was now droning monotonously by their seats, "_Tickets please._"

"Oh, ticket-master! How absolutely corking to see you, old boy!" cried George. "By Jove, you wouldn't happen to have a handkerchief upon your fellow? I'm afraid I've spilt my ink."

Nox quickly lent forward before George could say anything else and handed the dour man their tickets while her ears turned pink in embarrassment.

"I must be mad taking you two anywhere near civilised people."

George jeered at her. "Oh, but it will be such jolly good fun."

"Don't get your knickers in a knot, Nox," Fred chimed in. "We wouldn't dream of embarrassing you in front of _royalty_. Besides, we plan on making a name for ourselves with this case. If we solve it, we'll be the most sought after Paranormal Investigators in the country. Then the clients will come rolling in, my debt'll be paid off and you can do whatever it is your nutty, Noxy noggin wants," he declared. His twin nodded confidently beside him.

It certainly sounded like an easy plan, but the twins seemed to think just about anything in the world was achievable if you had enough nerve, and Nox didn't believe that was an entirely safe philosophy to live, or, as it were, not live by.

Across the aisle a small child was staring over at them with large, curious eyes. It took a moment for Nox to realise that it was in fact Fred who was holding the child's attention rapt. Fred, who had also noticed his new audience, began to pull a range of silly faces at the girl, who giggled and pointed excitedly.

"Hey, stop it!" Nox whispered in alarm. "She can _see_ you."

"Stop worrying. Grown Muggles can't see a lot of what's right in front of them," George began passively, "but they're a bit different as children. Most Muggle children can see, not because they _want_ to, but because they absolutely do _believe_. They've got no reason not to, after all." He sighed and leaned his head against the seat. "They change as they grow up, mind. First adults swear blindly that the world is full of magic to their kids, then a few years down the line they turn around and tell them 'Sorry, that was just a little white lie so you'd shut your great, howling yapper at night'."

Nox raised her dark eyebrows. "You're quite scathing about normal – er, about my lot."

"I don't mean to be," George answered truthfully. "But that kind of attitude stops our folk living alongside yours."

"I dunno…what are _your folk_?" said Nox, blowing her heavy fringe out of her eyes. "You still haven't got me convinced. Maybe once I see something…" she said, with a rather obvious hint.

George smiled knowingly at her. "I told you I can't perform any magic until you sign that contract, and you won't do that until after the trial week."

"Besides, am I not enough to convince your noggin?" said Fred indignantly. "Blimey, you're hard to impress. Such a cynical, Muggly realist."

The rest of the journey continued in much the same way: Fred and George keen on taking the opportunity to make a more intimate acquaintance out of their newfound companion, who, equally to their delight, was very reluctant to comply.

The hours passed and several platform changes later the view outside changed from the muggy, rain spattered streets of Greater London to the green, well-hedged fields and ruddy plains of Devonshire.

After four hours of travelling and extremely informal questioning, the trio arrived at their destination and stepped out onto the platform.

Nox took a deep breath of clear country air and sighed contentedly. "It's nice to get out of the city for once, don't you think?"

George shrugged nonchalantly. "We grew up around here."

"Our family home's in Ottery St Catchpole," added Fred. "Visited just last week. Oi, Georgie, that's a point, we could pop round to the Burrow for tea afterwards."

George looked thoroughly disgusted at the notion. "Are you mad? With Mum going nuts over Ginny's pregnancy?" He shook his head, as if trying to shake the terrible images from his mind. "I'd rather move in with Looney Lovegood and her Nargles."

"That's a shame, I haven't had a home-cooked meal in yonks," said Nox with an amused smile. "Come to think of it, it's been a good few years since I've been home."

"_Oh?_" said the twins together in a tone that suggested nothing but evil intent. "And _that_ would be?"

"Absolutely not!" Nox snapped, suddenly very stern. "You're not getting any more personal details out of me. Haven't the last four hours taught you that?"

"We're slow learners," said Fred, beaming.

"Damn tenacious twins." She heaved her heavy rucksack onto her back and struggled down the platform's rickety old stairs, grumbling to herself.

The railway station they had departed from was quite small and desolate, completely befitting of the forbidding landscape which now surrounded them. Beyond the green fields and pastures stretched a barren countryside where only the wildest and hardiest of flora dared to take up root upon the treacherous, rocky hills and jagged summits.

"Don't think there's a chance her Ladyship will have a horse and carriage picking us up from Rosewood," George commented dryly.

"Unlikely," Fred agreed, looking glum as he drifted along beside them. "That Beckinsale girl said they'd be expecting us in the afternoon. She didn't say anything about how we were going to get there. In fact," he said thoughtfully, scratching his head, "she didn't say much of anything."

"Well it's about two o'clock now," said George, "and it looks like all Muggle transport stops short here."

Nox pulled out a map from a side-pocket in her rucksack and spread it across the ground. "Let's get our bearings then."

Fred and George squinted at the ancient map in bemusement. "Well it's a hundred years out of date, but it'll have to do," said George smirking. "There it is, three miles West. You're lucky the estate's a grand old two hundred years."

Nox laughed, feeling a bit sheepish. "Better than nothing, isn't it? Come on, let's get moving. What's three miles anyway?" she said confidently and marched ahead of the twins down the path, adding, "I walk at least ten around London every day!"

An hour later Nox was trailing sluggishly behind Fred and George, sweating and dragging her feet along the dusty white roads. During their hike the warm afternoon sun had come out, changing the melancholy Dartmoor landscape to a beautiful picturesque scene, filled with colour. There were very few farmhouses along the road – in fact the only sign of any civilisation was the occasional ruin amongst the enormous grey boulders or abandoned gabled house peeping out from behind the high green foliage.

At last they swung into a very familiar side road, which sloped up a steep hill and disappeared from sight. On either side there gushed a bubbling stream, hidden from sight by the bracken and ferns which grew there. There were no trees to block the view as they climbed and now they could see all around them the Dartmoor countryside, bright and cheerful in the sunlight, but every time a cloud passed over the sun the moor would take on a different character – perhaps its true character – a sinister, unpredictable land.

Fred planted his hands on his hips and whistled at the view. "Creepy," he remarked, though quite clearly impressed. "Don't fancy a stroll down there tonight, Georgie?"

George grimaced and shook his head. "Not for a hundred Galleons, mate."

Fred looked askance at his twin. "Hmm, what's that?"

George, however, ignored his brother and turned back to the last of their group who was struggling up the hill. "Need a hand, Nutty?" he called.

"Nah, I-I'm fine!" Nox wheezed, forcing a grin. "Just taking my time to enjoy the scenery," she panted. "Aren't you fiends even remotely tired?"

"Course not!" George answered. "I'm in the prime of my life."

"And I'm in the prime of my death!" Fred laughed, flexing his silvery arms. "You going to give in and request our gentlemanly assistance yet?"

"Not a chance," said Nox, squatting at their feet. "But I'm going to stay down here a minute. I want to really appreciate the view," she said, and promptly rolled onto her back.

"Come on now, no lying down on the job! Besides, we're here." George motioned, flinging his arm out towards the elegantly wrought iron gates behind them.

The gates twisted this way and that into a high arch before meeting at the centre to create a beautiful rose motif. At either side of the gate there grew tall rosebushes that appeared to encircle the entire Rosewood Estate. The combination of twisted metal and bright flowers was both beautiful and foreboding.

Nox swallowed thickly. "This reeks of trap."

"Yeah?" said George.

"So?" Fred shrugged. "That's the fun part. Really, did you live in a box before we came along?"

Nox ignored him and began to struggle to her feet – having been lying on her large rucksack, however, Nox found she had to rock from side to side, until she had created momentum enough to push herself onto her knees and back onto her feet, all to the twins' great amusement.

"Why do I have the feeling you're going to be the death of me?" she muttered ruefully.

"Stop worrying, Nutty," said Fred. "If you do pop your clogs, I'll keep you company."

Nox wasn't sure if that was a thoughtful comment or a malicious threat. George bent in front of her, a kindly look on his face. She took an involuntary step back.

"A little fear is good for your health apparently," he told her. "So we don't mind if you're a bit of a coward, Nox."

George patted her head in what she supposed was meant to be a sympathetic gesture, but felt more patronising than anything else.

She felt her cheeks turn pink. "It's a detective's business to address a situation as they see it," she remarked stiffly, then swiftly grabbed her rucksack and tossed it onto her back with ease. Her injured pride had evidently given her an extra boost of strength. "I'll go first, shall I?" she said pointedly.

Fred and George grinned wickedly at each other and followed her through the iron gates.

The grounds of Rosewood Estate were not at all the grand, trimly kept gardens they had come to expect. The grass had been allowed to grow long and wild to the point where it resembled a small jungle. Wild flowers grew in abundance and along the main avenue rows of apple trees had been planted. Between each apple tree was stationed an old stone soldier, each unique and more gruesome in appearance than the last.

Fred stopped to get a better look at one such statue whose fanged, toad-like face glowered back at him.

"Ugly looking blokes," he said. "Here, George, this one remind you of anyone?"

George peered closer at the statue and a grin began to spread across his freckled face. "Dolores! When did you get out of Azkaban? You should have called! We would have taken you out for dinner."

"With _Fluffy_." Fred smirked.

"Thou has got some cheek about thee!" barked an angry voice from behind the statue.

Fred and George leapt back with a start as a gruff old man limped towards them, waving a pair of gardening shears menacingly. The sun-weathered skin of his face was brown and wrinkly like a prune and his small black eyes eyed them with distrust. Although his legs appeared stiff with rheumatism, the old man still looked as though he could run a good few miles without breaking a sweat if he was angry enough, so making a dash for it seemed out of the question.

"What's tha' doin' here?" he asked, furiously. "All thy bloody ramblers think they own the whole damned countryside! Get out of it or ah'll call th' police!"

"We've been hearing that a lot recently," Fred muttered in George's ear, who readily nodded in agreement.

Nox hastily stepped between them, waving her arms to calm the old man down.

"Wait, we're not ramblers. We're here on business with the Beckinsale family," she said, and quickly handed him their card. "We have an appointment." She hesitated then added, "Sort of."

The gardener, for that was what the old man's function appeared to be, snapped the card up in one grubbily gloved hand and examined it carefully. It seemed to satisfy him because he was off at once, beckoning them to follow with a short wave of his arm.

"Tha'll have t' answer to the Missus," he told them as they travelled the road to the main house. "And _don't touch_ the apples!" he barked, batting George's hand away before his fingers could even brush the skin of the fruit.

Fred and Nox chuckled while George cursed and grumbled, his stomach replying in like.

"I haven't eaten since we left London," he told them with a sigh, "and these apples look delicious."

"Of course they do!" the gardener replied, testily. "These orchards are tended to by tha' little ladies of the house." The old man's face softened a little. "All their sweetness an' light have gone into these trees."

It was a short walk to the main house. Not that any of them thought that 'house' was an accurate description for the place. It wasn't so much a house as a small fort, and looked just as wild and unpredictable as the country and grounds it inhabited. Hundreds of dark windows, draped with curtains of heavy burgundy velvet, reflected the craggy moors beyond the Estate. The old gardener stopped at the foot of a short flight of stone steps and ushered them on to the main door, whose oak face was adorned with a gold knocker in the shape of an apple tree.

Fred, George and Nox stared at the door, feeling overwhelmed by the immensity of the place.

The gardener stared at them as if they were utterly stupid.

"Well? Knock! Can't a great big city detective figure that out, or is thy head too full of smog?"

Nox flushed and stuck her hand out towards the knocker, but before she could grasp it the door suddenly swung inwards. In its place stood the towering figure of a terrifying, austere woman who gazed down her long nose at them with an air of repugnance.

"I think you will find that the entrance for the help is by the stables," said the woman in an extremely affected tone. "Weatherby, please show them the way," she instructed, then turned to go inside.

"Beggin' thy pardon Missus, but these gentlemen say tha' have an appointment with thee," the gardener, Weatherby, informed her.

The woman's small black eyes slid between the two visitors, critically. Nox was a little taken aback by this Victorian master-servant exchange; even more so when she realised she had just been referred to as being a _gentleman_. She hoped upon hope that neither twin had caught this remark, but sadly she wasn't in luck.

"Nox!" exclaimed Fred, feigning a hurt expression. "You never told me you were a cross-dresser! Had my suspicions mind," he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And I did wonder why I wasn't remotely attracted to you."

Nox grit her teeth. _'If only he were made of flesh and blood,'_ she fumed, _'I'd kick him.'_

"I don't recall making any such appointment," the tall woman drawled, with an arched eyebrow. "May I have your names?"

"I'm Detective Nox Wolfe," said Nox and bowed her head courteously. "And this is… the tea boy_._"

George visibly stiffened but this revelation seemed to please the woman somewhat, for her demeanour softened now that she believed Nox was travelling with a servant.

"Well, we shall have to see about your business at once," the woman said, suddenly all action, and opened the door wider. "I am afraid the Lady and Lord of the estate are abroad on business. You shall have to speak with their daughter, Miss Audra, instead. Weatherby!" the woman called, tartly. "Take Mr…."

"_Weasley,_" said George, acidly.

The woman looked at George with irritation. Something about his unruly red hair, bottle-green tailed coat and jeans must have offended the woman most grievously, for she refused to address him directly.

"You will take _Mr Weasley_ to the kitchens and have him wait forthwith." She turned back to Nox and smiled what she must have believed to be a pleasant smile, but looked altogether creepy upon her tight-lipped face. "You will follow me, Detective."

"What did you go and say that for?" George growled at Nox as she was lead away. "It was _Fred_ who made fun of you."

"And he's _your_ twin," Nox whispered back, a small smile on her lips. "Thereby, you are responsible for everything he says and does."

"Tough luck, mate." Fred strode over and clapped an icy hand on his twin's shoulder, smiling wickedly. "I never was much good with responsibility anyway. See you later!"

George could only glare and mouth a few choice obscenities at them before they disappeared inside the house.

**oOo **

Much to George's pleasant surprise, the kitchens were full of life and sound. The ashes of the fire crackled and popped, and an old gramophone was belting out a jaunty ragtime tune. From the bare rafters above hung an assortment of kitchen utensils, meat-hooks and bunches of dried flowers and herbs. There were baskets of apples everywhere and the smell of fruit tarts, stuffed duck, and apple crumble was a painful reminder that it had been at least six hours since his last meal.

In the centre of the room a plump, red faced woman was humming along to the lively old tune and vigorously plucking the feathers from a pheasant. The old gardener hobbled inside and dumped himself into a moth-eaten armchair by the hearth where a spaniel padded happily up to him, and licked his fingers by way of a greeting. The cook, however, wasn't so pleased to see him.

"Ben, what are you bringing into my kitchen?" she exclaimed, looking up from the half-plucked game-bird.

"Let tha' dog alone, Martha," Ben grumbled and patted the spaniel's head.

"I'm not talking about the dog!" said Martha and pointed a floury finger at George. "Who's this one?" She frowned at George, suspiciously. "We're not selling or buying anything if that's what you're after."

"I'm not here to buy or sell anything, Madame." George made a gallant bow and swept up her hand. "In fact, I am entirely at your service," he said, in his most charming tone.

"Oh, well in that case…" Martha's cheeks turned pinker still when she looked George over then waved him away in a fluster, laughing heartily. "We never get boys visiting us! Regretfully I'm not young enough to warrant a visit and Ben's about as friendly as an old goat, but we have two girls here who get a might lonely. I'm sure they'll be glad of your company! So, where are you from, lad? What's your name?"

Ben Weatherby scoffed. "He came with some city boy who says he's a detective."

Martha scowled. "I wasn't _asking_ you."

"Actually that's about the truth of it," George told her honestly. "We were invited just yesterday. You mentioned there were two girls here? I was under the impression that there was only a Miss Audra Beckinsale living here?"

Martha's bright eyes dimmed a little.

"So that's what you're here for." She pushed back the frayed ends of mousy hair straying from beneath her cap and huffed. "Well yes, Audra lives here with Mrs Ternwip, her guardian. And then there's our Lucie."

Just then a pretty girl with cropped golden hair came tottering through the door, her arms full with yet another massive basket of apples. George had to leap nimbly out of her way to avoid her crashing into him.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" the girl gasped. "Did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. Let me help you with that." George smiled warmly and took the basket of apples from her hands. He was instantly taken with her. Lucie was slight and undeveloped to the point that she looked no older than fifteen, but her bright, beautiful eyes told him she was a good ten years over that. She smiled appreciatively at his kind gesture.

"What's going on then?" asked Lucie, wiping a hand across her brow. "I saw Ben coming up the drive with two men." She grinned at George. "I'm guessing you're one of them."

George set down the basket of apples then lifted his hands in the air.

"Guilty as charged," he said and smiled brazenly.

"Tha've got city folk invading the premises," muttered Ben Weatherby. "Smog-heads and thieves, all!"

Martha cocked a sharp eye towards him.

"Ben! One more spiteful word out of you and you can sleep outside with that wretched dog tonight!"

"No, no, that's fine!" George laughed, finding his current situation all too familiar. "I'm afraid he's got me clocked again," he admitted, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Your apples were just too tempting, I couldn't help myself." George smiled guiltily at Lucie. "Actually, I hear they're your triumph," he flirted.

Lucie blushed and mumbled inaudibly.

"Pah!" Ben grunted, derisively. "Don't be so stupid. This runt couldn't grow a weed. No, tha' Lord and Lady's daughters reared those trees. Tending the orchards has been a tradition passed down to every daughter in the family for two hundred years."

"But they've been left to Ben since Catherine went missing," Lucie explained while busying herself around the kitchen table in an obvious attempt to avoid George's watchful, smirking eyes.

"Lucie!" Martha cautioned. "It's not your place, girl. Start the pastry for tonight. We'll be having two more guests for dinner."

George frowned. If tending to apple trees was the high point of the sisters' lives at Rosewood Estate, he couldn't very well blame one for wanting to escape. Maybe this wasn't as sinister a case as Nox had wanted to believe. Despite this, George still didn't think it would be wise to mention Audra's visit to his house as it was becoming glaringly obvious that no one had expected their arrival.

"It's true I'm with a private investigator," George admitted to Martha in his most gentile tone of voice. "But that can wait 'til later. At the moment think of me as your temporary kitchen help!" he said, whisking a white apron off a peg beside the door. "Will Audra be available to interview after dinner?"

"Oh my dear, no!" Martha exclaimed. "Audra hasn't seen a raw bit of sunshine in weeks and she rarely ever leaves her bedroom. Poor soul only ever goes out in the evening when the sun's set. The daylight makes her weak, you see, and her bones just can't carry her anymore." The woman hiccupped, her eyes becoming red and teary. "Little lamb just doesn't want to go on without her sister."

George glanced at the three faces around him. He could tell the situation had broken their hearts, but something wasn't sitting right with him. George felt like he was missing some vital piece of information. As if in answer to his thoughts, Lucie spoke up.

"It's a condition, I think," said Lucie, carefully, "of being a twin. One just can't live without the other."

**oOo **

Fred wiped his finger along the marble mantelpiece in the drawing-room and pulled a face.

"Urgh," he remarked, an exaggerated look of disgust on his face, "dusty."

Nox sighed. Fred had been dogging her around the mansion for the past two hours, during which Mrs Ternwip, their host, had taken them on a grand and painfully boring tour. Nox eyed her strange, semi-transparent companion. It felt as though she'd picked up a stray mutt that had taken a liking to her and decided to take it upon himself to become her loyal companion.

"You're _dead_," Nox said at length. "What do you care about a little bit of dust?"

"I'll have you know a ghost's still got standards." Fred rested his back against the mantelpiece and crossed his arms over his chest as he turned to look at her. "Where is this woman? I'm going to die of boredom all over again if she doesn't hurry up."

"Do you really have to stick about?" she asked him despairingly. "Can't you go irritate your brother?"

"Now, now, I couldn't leave you all alone in a spooky old mansion." The corner of Fred's mouth lifted in a wicked smirk. "What if you saw a ghost?"

"Hmm, I wonder," Nox remarked, dryly. A thought suddenly crossed her mind and she turned to Fred looking alarmed. "Fred, now that I can see you, does this mean I can see other ghosts too?" The idea frankly horrified her. She didn't think that she could stand another Fred attaching itself to her.

Fred looked quite surprised by the question. "Of course you can. That _was_ the deal with the dodger, remember? And I'll wager it won't just be ghosts neither," he laughed.

"Oh God," Nox moaned, tangling fingers in her hair. "I'm sitting with a ghost, in an ancient house in Dartmoor that's renowned for being one of the most haunted places in the country!" She flumped against the cushions on the couch. "Clever Nox, _real_ smart. No wonder I didn't get past my one year probationary period."

Fred walked towards the window, looking bored.

"Well then, you shouldn't go stuffing strange objects into your big gob."

Nox couldn't bring herself to agree with him, but she knew that Fred was right. What had she been thinking back in Weasley Manor; and after all the anti-drugs campaigns she had been submitted to as a child growing up through the eighties, too.

Nox glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was closing in on half past six and despite it being mid-summer, the light was already beginning to fade due to the heavy rain clouds forming over the moors. Her empty stomach ached and began to protest loudly. Fred almost jumped as one such outburst gurgled forth.

"You got Nargles in there?" He looked at her with astonished wide eyes. "Didn't you pack any food in that ruddy great big pack of yours?"

Before she could answer him, Mrs Ternwip strode briskly into the drawing-room. Her tight-lipped face was ashen and it looked as if she was doing everything in her power to keep her countenance in check.

"Your dinner will be served in your room," she informed them, curtly. "I will show you there now."

Fred looked at Nox, who frowned at their host, a bit baffled. "Won't Audra be available to talk with me tonight?" she asked.

"No, I'm afraid not." Mrs Ternwip looked as if she wanted nothing more than to dive out of the drawing-room window head first. "Miss Beckinsale is far too ill. Perhaps tomorrow. I will show you to your room now, please, if you will follow."

With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the drawing-room at a brisk trot.

Fred thrust his arms behind his head and followed after her at an easy gait, while Nox trailed at a more reluctant pace. Every single hair on her arms and neck was tingling with apprehension – this didn't feel _right_, and not in the same way Weasley Manor had felt 'not right'. Nox sensed there was a tinge of danger in the air, but one glance outside at the thunderous looking sky told her they were going nowhere tonight.

Fred stopped to peer around at her when he realised she was lagging behind. "Come on, Nutty! Or I'm going to go deaf with that stomach of yours. It complains almost as much as you do." He poked a finger in his ear, pretending to clean it out. "And just as loudly, too."

She caught up to Fred and, keeping an eye on Mrs Ternwip's tall, straight back, she said to him in a hushed voice, "Fred, I think you should go and check on George. Just in case."

"What? Why?" he asked, unfolding his arms from behind his head and looking perplexed. Then he raised an eyebrow and considered her, suspiciously. "Trying to get rid of me again? You really don't want to do that."

"Oh, don't argue with me," she hissed, waspishly. "Just go and find him!"

Fred glowered at her then rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Fine," he said, "but don't moan my head off when I say I told you so."

With a turn and a loud _crack_, he disappeared into thin air.

Nox looked dismayed at the spot where Fred had vanished into thin air, and despite Mrs Ternwip walking down the other end of the hall, she couldn't help the feeling of loneliness that was already creeping over her.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter coming soon! Hope you liked that one, I'd love to hear what you think. Thanks again to all the people who have reviewed so far, I love all you fantastic sods! xx


	5. Casebook 01: Snare

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for the great reviews! It means a lot that people are reading and reviewing this story. I'm still so completely gutted over the ending of Deathly Hallows, even though I saw it coming a mile off. As far as I'm concerned, this is exactly what happens after DH and no one can convince me otherwise - not even J.K.R! XD

This chapter was Beta read by BloodRayne

Oh, I have a few bits and pieces of fanart to go alongside the story on my Deviantart account (weasley-detectives) if anyone would like to check it out.

* * *

_The summer moments always pass quickly_

_- _The Eddas_  
_

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
Casebook 01: Snare

_Crack!_

Fred Apparated inches from his twin, who was completely unperturbed by his brother's sudden appearance. George's interest was far too absorbed in his current meal. "They use apples in everything here," he told Fred, "and I mean _everything_. Apple sauce, apple pie, pheasant stuffed with apple, apple sorbet!" He lifted his glass and pointed at its contents, happily. "Apple cider!"

Fred raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the meal spread out before him. "George, we should have picked out a bloke," he remarked matter-of-factly. "Girls are just far too difficult. Nox is like a clumsy Hermione, only thick as two short planks."

George only laughed. "She told you to bog off, didn't she?" he said without once taking his eyes off his food. "I thought you liked her."

"Her charms are quickly wearing off," Fred grunted and floated over to the window-box.

George rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't have left her. You know what these old houses are like, and her Muggle eyes'll be a bit more open to things now, won't they?"

Fred ignored him and looked around the room instead. George's guest room was like something out of an old vampire novel. Dark tapestries lined every wall, fanciful Arthurian stories and hero quests embroidered on each one. There was a large four-poster bed with deep, burgundy drapes, and a silver supper table by the fire where George currently sat, feasting on his three-quarters apple meal. Two deep windows faced the moors. Fred swung his legs up onto the seat and frowned out the glass at the darkening sky.

"Well anyway, what do you make of it?" he asked his twin after a time.

"Of what?" asked George, his mouth full of pheasant.

"The _case_, Lugless. Don't you intend to bias my brilliant mind with any theories or suggestions?" asked Fred in a manner which told George that he hadn't a clue and wanted some help. It was a line Fred had often used in school when he had been stuck on a particularly mind-boggling question.

George leaned back in his chair, sloshing the contents of his glass around, and mulled over the situation. "Well," he began slowly, "in the first place, no one in the magical community except for Dedalus, Kingsley and Harry know what we're up to, and they certainly didn't make those cards. So how did Audra get her hands on one?"

"She probably made it herself in order to get us here," said Fred.

"Maybe, but then how did a Muggle know about us in the first place? We only came up with the title yesterday morning." George set his glass down on the supper table with a clonk. "Besides, I've been told by the staff here that Audra never leaves her room; she's too sick."

Fred nodded, taking another piece of the puzzle in. "So that's why she couldn't meet us tonight. I was beginning to think they kept her locked in a belfry."

"Pity. That would have made the case a bit more interesting." George began to make a start on his fifth course. "I'm never going to want to face another apple again after this. So what about you? Any theories?"

"Not so much a theory," said Fred, folding his arms behind his head again. "More of an observation."

George looked at him. "Go on, then."

"About that girl yesterday," Fred started, looking a little distant.

"What about her?"

Fred blew air through his nose in an unsettled gesture and turned to look his twin fully in the eye. "She said there would be _three_ rooms prepared."

**oOo**

It was pouring outside. The sheets of rain were so heavy that Nox couldn't make out a single tree in the orchard below her. She pressed her nose against the cool glass and peered further. There wasn't a pinpoint of light anywhere in the gardens or in the wild moors beyond the estate. Behind her, the licking tongues of flame in the fireplace hissed and spat as a few drops of water found their way down the chimney. Resolving to make the best out of a bad situation, Nox pulled the heavy, velvet curtains over and huddled up to the fire with a book. Her grey eyes glittered; she loved the feeling of being safe and toasty warm indoors during a storm.

Location and keeps considered, the weekend would have been a very romantic get-away, if it weren't for the fact that she was sharing it with a ghost and a bloke who was more Cheshire Cat than man. The British moors had been the location for so many great works of epic, romantic literature: Wuthering Heights; the Secret Garden; the Hound of the Baskervilles.

The latter Nox currently held in her hands. Unsurprisingly enough, she was a great fan of Sherlock Holmes' adventures, and she had thought the book quite befitting for her own Dartmoor adventure. After only ten minutes of reading, however, her eyes began to feel heavy and the words in her book were becoming blurry. Her bed suddenly seemed miles away from the comfort of the warm, flickering fire.

A scuffling noise from somewhere in the room brought her quickly back to her senses. She glanced around the floor, expecting to see a rat or a mouse scuttling along the skirting board, but there wasn't a rodent in sight. Nox listened carefully, and after a moment the scuffling, scraping noise came again. A cold chill ran up her spine. It sounded more like finger nails raking across a hard surface. She couldn't run to George's room; that was completely out of the question. Despite the fact that Nox didn't know where George's room was, she didn't want to suffer the sheer embarrassment of admitting to the twins that she was scared. Besides, she was a grown woman of twenty-three, and certainly not a damsel in distress of any kind.

The fingers of her right hand twitched. Not for the first time that week, Nox cursed her badly judged timing to quit smoking.

The scratching started again. It was getting louder now, and more insistent against the backdrop of the heavy rainfall. Nox turned to the window box and her heart sank; the noise coming from outside. She tried to remember how many floors up her room was, quickly counting them off on her fingers. She considered taking the candelabra from the mantelpiece with which she'd be ready to face any intruder harbouring ill-intentions with a good whack or two.

Suddenly, three menacing bangs shook the walls. Nox stiffened in alarm, every nerve and muscle tuned and ready, her heart beating furiously in her chest. After a few minutes of silence, she managed to gather her nerves. _'It's fine, no one can get up this high,'_ she told herself, and then came upon a realisation. _'I bet it's that bloody ghost! Should've known he would try and pull a stunt like this,'_ she thought vindictively. Thrusting her book down on the supper table, Nox marched towards the window where she threw open the velvet curtains in a fury.

If Fred had been there, she certainly couldn't see him now. All Nox could make out were the fat blobs of rain water against the window. A clatter behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin. She turned to see her book splayed on the floor. Nox gave a nervous chuckle, feeling a bit stupid, and turned back to close the curtains again. In the time it took for her to turn back towards the window, a round, pale, brambly face had appeared, pressed up against the glass. It was mouthing wordlessly at her, dragging its horrible thorny fingers down the glass. Nox froze as the inhuman figure lifted its arms high above its head, and then threw them against the glass. The force shook the entire room and nearly threw Nox from her feet.

The jolt forced a cry from her throat and there was a loud _crack_, followed by a shout, and the heavy curtains drew close, seemingly by themselves, blocking out the awful view of the creature splayed against the window.

Panting, Nox spun on her heel to find Fred standing there, looking shocked and perhaps a bit paler than usual. She hung her head close to his icy cold, silver chest and groaned in relief. Fred floated there for a minute, looking confused and incredibly awkward, as though unsure where to put his arms. At length he let one hand hover loosely over her shoulder, while the other patted her head clumsily.

"It's alright," Fred muttered uneasily. "Calm down. It's gone now."

Nox pulled away from him, shivering a bit at his icy touch, and leaned her hands against her thighs, cursing like a soldier. "The irony of turning to a ghost for comfort," she said, laughing nervously. "What in Hell was that anyway? Am I now a beacon for all ghost-kind? Actually, don't answer that. I'm not sure I want to know."

Fred shook his head, pensively, never taking his eyes from the window. "No… that wasn't a ghost," he muttered, rubbing his chin.

By the tone of his voice, Nox wasn't sure she wanted to ask him any further questions. At least, not until she had finished the bottle of whiskey which had been supplied by the house.

"Oh, hell!" she said angrily, crossing the room towards the little supper table. She lifted the bottle of whiskey and smiled at him wryly. "Now I know why they're being so generous, supplying me with a full bottle."

"I could do with one myself." Fred ran a hand through his hair and laughed. "That thing gave me the heebie-jeebies. You see its eyes? Or lack thereof – nasty bugger." He floated across the room and sat on one of the armchairs by the fire.

"I'm not sure I want to know what scares a ghost," said Nox and laughed a little giddily.

Fred puffed out his chest and shot her a contemptuous glance. "Not _scared_," he began, shortly, "just spooked. I wasn't expecting that. I heard you scream from the hallway and thought you'd seen a stupid mouse or something, but blimey! I knew this case was fishy. You can't pull wool over the eyes of a trickster – 'specially a dead one."

Nox had already succeeded in downing three straight shots and was working on pouring a fourth with one trembling hand. She inquired if George had discovered anything further about Audra, and they spent the next half hour discussing Rosewood Estate and all its peculiarities.

"You don't think it can get in, do you?" Nox asked him after a time, eyeing the window warily. The question had been on the tip of her tongue for a while.

Fred shook his head, adamantly. "No - if it could have, it would have got in by now. Besides, whatever the poxy thing was, it looks like it's decided to bog off and scare the pants off someone else for now."

Nox felt embarrassed. She hesitated, wanting to thank him, but for some reason she couldn't find the right words. Fred didn't seem to care in any case. He looked far too lost in his own thoughts to notice her. Instead, she set her glass down and crawled into bed, edging as far away from the window as possible, and wondered if Fred would stay or return to George's room.

"Aren't you going to go back?" she asked at length.

Fred looked at her. "Hmm? Nah, I'll stay here," he said. "Want to wait and see if that thing comes back so I can get a better look at it." He tossed her an easy grin. "Who knows, if it's an undiscovered creature, I might get to name it. What do you think of Fred Junior?"

"Oh, yes; suitably terrifying," said Nox sarcastically, her grey eyes smirking. "After all, you do resemble each other a bit."

"Cutting!" Fred declared, grasping his chest as though mortally wounded. "And harsh. But I'll forgive you since you nearly wet yourself back there." He settled into his armchair, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. "Now, zip your yap and get some sleep. We'll be spending all of tomorrow doing what you do best -" He wiggled his eyebrows at her and added, "- snooping."

Nox threw her slipper at him, which sailed easily through Fred's head faintly glowing silver head.

"Fast learner, aren't you?" he quipped with a grin.

With a wide yawn, Nox slumped back onto the pillows. She could hardly believe that only yesterday morning her life had been relatively normal and Weasley-free, and that now she was facing her own detective mystery in the wild Dartmoor countryside. Moreover, Nox had a feeling things were about to get far stranger still.

**oOo**

Nox and the twins spent a lot of the time over the next few days at Rosewood Estate, snooping around the enormous mansion and expansive grounds, but they had yet to come up with any evidence, nor indeed meet the lady of the house. It was also becoming increasingly hard for George to join the others, due to Martha running him ragged in the kitchens; not that Fred or Nox heard him complain much. Working in the kitchens meant more time spent with Lucie, who it seemed George was quickly becoming attached to.

"I'm getting suspicious," said Nox one morning as they sat down to breakfast with together in the mansion's impressive mahogany dining hall.

"There's a surprise," said Fred, rolling his eyes. "You can't walk five feet without getting suss about something."

Nox ignored him and continued, lowering her tone in case Mrs Ternwip was listening at the door – they had found the grim woman eavesdropping on them on more than one occasion. "Don't you think it's a bit odd that the kitchen's working you so hard, George? We only get to see each other over breakfast and dinner. I think they're trying to keep us apart."

"Ah, I didn't know you cared so much." George leaned over with his fork to stab a sausage off her plate. "You weren't eating that, were you?" he said, already halfway through it.

"Uh, no. Go ahead," she muttered, staring wide-eyed at the enormous pile of food on his plate. She wasn't the only one; Fred was also gawping, open-mouthed at his twin.

"Bloody hell, Georgie! Sure you're eating enough?" he asked incredulously. "Wouldn't want you to waste away or anything."

"Funny," said George, glaring over his mountain of scrambled eggs on toast. "I've got a ten hour shift ahead of me. My hands are raw from all the stupid dishes I've been washing. I don't get how Muggles manage this every day of their lives. It's driving me nuts."

Fred looked at him in surprise. "Why don't you just use magic?"

"I can't," said George despairingly. "Martha's always watching me. Got eyes in the back of her head, that woman has. And if she's not around, then Lucie is."

"Well, at least your sidekick is a cute little blonde who doesn't suspect every bleeding shadow of harbouring a homicidal killer," said Fred, shooting a glance at Nox, who bristled with anger. She didn't like being talked about as if she wasn't even in the room.

"Oi, listen here!" she snapped, spraying them both with bits of buttered toast. "I don't have to stay in this medieval, gothic _nuthouse_. I've been scared out my wits, referred to as a bloke these past three days, and there hasn't been a single mention of pay. I'm sticking about for the two of you only, but it you don't appreciate my help, then I'm off."

Both twins looked highly amused at their detective's angry outburst, and it looked like Fred was doing everything in his power not to quip a joke at her expense.

"All right, that's fair," said George before his twin could chase their detective off for good. "We'll behave."

"But only a little," added Fred firmly.

"Good," said Nox briskly. "Right then, back to business. I prepared this last night – figured it might come in handy to the case."

Nox held up a large map of what looked like the entirety of Rosewood Estate, looking excited and very pleased with herself. She had drawn little red and blue crosses over all the rooms and floors they had already explored, and here and there notes had been hastily scribbled across the paper. "George, since you'll be around the kitchens, you can grill the staff for more information and explore the areas marked in blue."

As she launched into a long-winded speech about their investigation, Fred leaned closer to his twin and said in a hushed tone, "She doesn't remind you of…"

"Wood?" George sighed. "Yeah."

Fred stared in dismay as Nox tapped one area of the map then circled another.

"Bugger."

**oOo**

George couldn't escape Nox and her lectures for another half hour, after which he received an earful from Martha for turning up late. Thankfully, he wasn't working in the kitchens today. Audra, it seemed, had taken a turn for the worse, for Mrs Ternwip came rushing downstairs looking more pale and panicked than ever before. She gestured wildly at Martha, who immediately dropped the basket of apples she had been carrying to the floor, and hurried away.

"You can go an' help Lucie on the moors, lad! She'll be round at the stables now," Martha called over her shoulder. "But don't be out after dark, just in case."

Feeling relieved, George headed out to the stables at the south end of the house, where Lucie was adjusting a saddle to a sturdy looking pony.

"What are you doing out here?" Lucie asked him as he strode casually into the courtyard. She looked flushed and surprised, but happy to see him.

"I think Audra's taken a turn for the worse," he told her distantly and stopped in front of the little bay pony. George could have sworn the beast was glaring at him with an air of distaste. While he was a great flyer, he didn't think riding a pony would be very similar to flying a broomstick, and the pony seemed to sense his trepidation. George lowered his eyebrows at the beast as it whinnied irritably, blowing hot, smelly breath in his face.

Lucie's smile broadened. "Oh, I think Bramble likes you!" She patted the pony's backside and motioned to George. "You can ride him then. I'll take Clover," she said and went to release a white pony from its stable.

"Great," George replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm, and took the pony's reins in his hand. "So, been riding long?" he asked, already tangled in the leather leads.

"Ever since I was a little girl," Lucie replied, mounting her own pony with ease. "What about you? I don't suppose you've spent much time around horses, living in the city."

"Nah, I've been riding for years!" George told her confidently, struggling to haul himself onto the back of the irritable pony, who was doing everything it could to get away from him. "Yeah, know everything about horses and ponies and …and…" George frowned. Somehow he had gotten turned about and was now sitting on the pony's back, facing its' rear-end. "Huh… Your pony's back to front. Must be suffering from reversititus; nasty thing that. Might have to put it down."

Lucie stifled a giggle. "Uhm, George? When you mount a pony on its left side, you have to put your left foot in the stirrup."

"Yeah, of course you do! I was just testing you, you know." George flashed her a wickedly charming grin. "My life's in your hands today, after all. Need to be sure you know your stuff."

"Really? Your life, is it?" Lucie nudged her pony on, a sultry smile on her face as she rode past him. "I'll have to take good care of it, then, won't I?"

George watched as she rode out of the courtyard, a dreamy sort of look on his face. After a moment, he gathered his wits and turned himself around on the saddle. "Humiliate me today and I'll turn you into a goat, got it?" he muttered into the pony's ear in a menacing tone.

They kept to the dusty main rode for a while, until Lucie turned her pony onto an invisible path which cut through the purple heather and wild gorse bushes. George wouldn't have noticed the narrow track if he had been walking along the main road alone. It was a muddy path, strewn with rocks and the occasional cluster of sheep bones. George was suddenly glad he wasn't on foot. "Genius Muggles," he said to himself. "Taming these dumb beasts."

His pony seemed to take offence at this remark, for it suddenly pulled on his reins so hard that George fell forwards onto its' neck.

"Are you all right?" Lucie shouted to him, concerned.

"I'm fine!" he called back, rubbing his bruised nose and bent down close to the pony's ear again. "I wasn't lying earlier, you 'mind that!" he whispered then urged the pony on until he was riding side by side with Lucie.

"So why are we out here anyway? What've we to do?" George asked her.

"We've got to check the rabbit snares," she replied with a grimace. "Ben lays these traps out every day. He usually picks them up himself, but he's feeling a bit under the weather today. They're horrid things, these snares, but I've got my orders. The first time I had to pull a baby hare from one, I cried for a whole day."

Despite the morbidity of their current subject, George couldn't help but smile at the girl beside him. She was honest and sweet-natured – a direct contrast from he and his twin. _'And Nox,'_ he thought, chuckling in his head. There was also a wild quality about Lucie which suited her to the unpredictable nature of Dartmoor.

She caught him staring and turned to hide her growing blush. "So how is your friend coming along with the case?"

"Nox?" George shrugged. "Struggling, I guess. There's not much to go on yet; just a bunch of leads and mysteries that go no where."

Lucie eyed him for a moment, and then shook her head, looking dreamy. "Don't be so positive about that," she warned him. "Everything leads somewhere."

George studied her profile; in that fleeting moment, Lucie had reminded him a little of Looney Luna Lovegood. He wasn't so sure this was a positive aspect. They rode in silence for a minute, enjoying the warm summer wind driving over the moors.

"Can I ask you something?" said George after a time, feeling curious. "What do you honestly think happened to Audra's sister?"

Lucie looked very uncomfortable at the question. "I'm not really sure."

"But you have to have some idea?" said George persistently. "No one just ups and disappears. Especially if they're a -" He stopped short. He had wanted to say the word 'twin', but it cut a little too close to home.

"I really don't know, George," said Lucie, truthfully. "Audra and Catherine were very close. They never quarrelled and spent almost every hour of the day together." There was a touch of sadness in her smile. "I always felt a little envious of them. I've never had any siblings. I grew up at the Estate with Ben and Martha."

"But they're not your parents?"

"No." Lucie shook her head. "My parents gave me up after I was born. Actually, it was Ternwip who took me in."

"Wow," said George, looking shocked. "I didn't think the evil old bat had a heart!"

Lucie laughed. "You're too cruel, George!"

George smirked. "If you think I'm cruel, then you should meet my twin." That was it; he'd said it. George felt like kicking himself.

"Your twin?" Lucie asked, looking mildly surprised at this revelation. "I didn't know you had a twin." She laughed, mockingly. "Is he as charming as you are?"

George felt hot and uncomfortable. "Actually, he's dead."

George awaited the next inevitable turn in conversation; it was the part where people 'aww-ed' and inclined their heads towards him, all the while directing unbearable expressions of sympathy. Above all, George hated being pitied – he wasn't the one who was stuck floating around as a ghost, after all.

As expected, Lucie inclined her head towards him and leaned over to touch his hand. "I'm so sorry, George," she said softly, but there was something so honest in her tone that it drove away his irritation and discomfort. He smiled at her and wrapped his fingers around her smaller hand.

A few moments later, they had arrived at the first rabbit snare. Lucie drew in a startled gasp at the scene before them: the bloody body of a rabbit was lying a few feet away from the snare, decapitated and torn to pieces.

"A fox must have got at it," she said, irritably.

"And eaten its' head?" George asked doubtfully. "Why would a fox take a rabbit's head? And look there." He pointed at the snare. "The wire's broken. A fox couldn't have done that."

Lucie stared at the creature thoughtfully, and then nudged her pony on to the next snare. But the situation looked much the same as the last; the body of the rabbit shredded and cast aside, while its head was nowhere in sight.

"Maybe the wires are faulty," Lucie suggested.

But George still looked doubtful. "The rabbits' have faulty heads too, eh? S'pose they just fell off by themselves."

"Perhaps some of the local children killed them and took them off as trophies?" She caught George's increasingly sceptic expression. "Well, there _are_ a lot of strange people living around here."

"Grasping at straws, more like it," George muttered.

"Lucie!" a voice suddenly shouted from nearby.

"Oh, John!" she cried back, waving happily at a young man who was striding across the wild heather towards them.

George narrowed his eyes at the approaching man suspiciously. "Who's _he_, then?" he asked her, having already decided that he didn't like the man one bit.

"John's the local wine merchant. He supplies the house," Lucie explained and trotted her pony over to greet the man.

"How are you?" Lucie asked when she reached him. "You look a bit under the weather."

John was a tall and burly man, with handsome dark features and friendly, shimmering eyes. He patted Lucie's pony and leaned up towards her. "Just a touch of the flu. You seen the state of the place?" he asked in a strong, rich accent.

"Yes, any idea what's happened?" Lucie asked urgently.

"Not a clue. And it's not just the rabbit snares 'n all. Half the moor's dripping in sheep's blood. I even saw a wild pony half-devoured back yonder."

"A pony!" Lucie gasped. "What on earth do you think has happened?"

"Well it's not the work of foxes, that's for damn sure," said John hurriedly, wiping his very sweaty brow. "I've gotta get back to the village. Think I'll give the police a call, just to put 'em on warning. Could be a wild panther – there've been sightings of them for years. Don't you be staying late out. Whatever this is, if it can bring down a wild pony, it won't make much work of you two."

"_Thanks_," muttered George tetchily. "I'll keep that in mind." After John was well out of earshot, George turned to Lucie, looking bold and wild with excitement. "Well then, let's go find this great beast."

Lucie paled. "Uhm, I don't think that's such a good idea …"

"Why not? We're only a half hour's ride from the Estate." George rode a little closer to her, so that their faces were inches apart. "And I won't let anything happen to you."

Lucie's face brightened at his words. "All right then," she nodded, though with an added wag of her finger. "But never deal in absolutes. That's bound to get you in trouble."

**oOo**

"Noxy Nox fell off her block and knocked her nogg' off the clock!"

"Shut up, Fred."

"The clock declared, 'I'm frightfully scared!', and bopped her over the dock!"

"Fred, SHUT UP!" Nox shouted irately. Fred had been rhyming with her name for two hours straight, and she was beginning to wish that her foolish parents had granted her a name with more than one syllable. "If you haven't got anything important to add to this case, then go somewhere else!"

"Fine; where?" asked Fred.

"I don't know," she said, pushing her fringe away from her eyes. "Go find George."

"You're kidding, right?" Fred looked at her as if she was utterly stupid. "Don't think Georgie would appreciate me interrupting his little date with the kitchen girl."

"Date?" she repeated, bewildered.

Fred's eyes widened, then he slapped his forehead, sighing wearily. "For a detective, you're pretty blind to some fairly obvious goings-on."

True, she hadn't been paying much attention to the relationship growing between her work-mate and the kitchen girl, but her mind had been caught up in the casebook at hand. With a short sigh, Nox hooked her thumbs behind her braces – the only thing capable enough of holding up her baggy work trousers hanging slack against her knobbly chicken legs.

"Well, anyway, you're a ghost – these are the moors," said Nox earnestly. "Go join your fellow dead-beats and _haunt_ someone."

"But it's daytime! It's no good scaring people during the day." Fred threw his arms around her neck and pressed his icy cheek against her warm one. "Besides, you're such an easy target."

Nox shivered at the coldness against her flesh. "Be that as it may," she began, sliding away from him, "I've got work to do, and you're not helping one bit."

Fred narrowed his eyes at her. "Merlin's beard, you're a moody ogre of a Scot." A smirk began to creep across his face. "You realise you're not doing your country's stereotype any favour."

"You've got a cheek calling me a stereotype," Nox mumbled back to him, studying her map carefully with a magnifying glass. "I think we should check outside underneath my window again. Maybe there's something we've missed."

Fred groaned. "We've been out there five times already! What do you expect to find, pot of gold or something?"

"Well, to begin with, it was raining too hard that night, so naturally there aren't any footprints." She began to tap her magnifying glass against her chin thoughtfully. "But maybe if I can climb up the wall, I can dust for finger-prints."

Fred slated his eyes at her. "You're kidding, right?" He prodded her nose with his finger. "You don't still think that was a big stupid Muggle banging on your window?"

"I'm keeping an open mind," Nox replied tersely.

They left the house by one of the servants' exits and skirted the East side of the house until they stood below her bedroom window. They peered up at the broad, black window. It was a good four floors up. It didn't seem very plausible that anyone could climb up without falling and breaking their neck; least of all during a storm.

Nox thought back to the inhuman face with the sunken eyes and shivered. But as much as that awful event had terrified her, she had come to think of it as an important clue to Catherine's disappearance and the fact that no one in the Estate knew of their arrival. Surely the strange events could not be mere coincidence. But after three days of searching, she, George and her ghostly companion had turned up nothing.

Nox peered through her large magnifying glass at the spot beneath her window, feeling beaten. "I don't know where to start," she admitted at last. "Ternwip won't let us talk to Audra and everyone else is too afraid to tell us anything about Catherine. And despite the fact that no one in the Estate will admit to hiring us to come here, no one has sent us away either." She squatted on the ground, running her hands through her thick hair. "I don't understand, how could Audra come to your house if she's too ill to leave her room? And why would she want paranormal detectives anyway?"

Fred nodded thoughtfully. "You know, the family didn't file a missing person's report when Catherine disappeared," he told her, much to Nox's surprise. "But they did bring in a private investigator, Argos Thickley. Course, he couldn't find anything."

Nox stared at him, looking very impressed. "How the heck do you know that?"

"I've got my ways," Fred replied, waving his hand in the air. "This case is so boring. Why anyone would want to take this up as their job beats the Wrackspurts out of me."

He wandered past a gushing fountain towards an apple tree – the oldest and largest in the orchard – and stretched his arms behind his head. Nox hurried after him. Golden sunshine was streaming though the branches of the beautiful old tree, dappling her face with patches of sunlight. Hundreds of blood red apples hung from every branch and littered the ground around her.

"By the way, you inspired a new product at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!" he told her, bending down and peering hard at a particularly large, juicy apple. "_'Worry Worts' _– stick on scabs guaranteed to give your unwary assailant a full hour of paranoia and stress, which I like to call the 'Noxy syndrome'." Fred rambled on, focusing very hard on raising the apple from the ground. "I'll start work on them when we get back home. Think I've got the formula worked out already."

Nox ignored the insult and watched with interest as the apple rose higher and higher into the air. "What's Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?" she asked, curiously.

"My company," Fred explained. "Well, mine and George's. We started it back in school."

Nox's eyes grew large in astonishment. "You don't mean that your entire fortune is -"

"Built up from our business?" Fred finished for her, looking very smug with himself. "Yeah, you could say we made a big impact. We've got loads of international stores now, but our main premises are still in Diagon Alley."

Nox begrudged her newfound respect for the trickster twins. She paused thoughtfully at the street-name he had mentioned. It had sounded familiar, thought she couldn't think why. "What's 'Diagon Alley'?"

Fred looked at her for a moment as if she were totally stupid, then rolled his eyes and laughed. "I forgot you don't know much about our world! Imagine not knowing Diagon Alley. Well, it's a street in London, isn't it?"

"In London? I've never heard of it. Is it on the skirts?"

"Don't be daft," he snorted. "You can get to it from Charring Cross Roa-" Before Fred could finish, the apple he had been holding in his transparent hand suddenly went flying away and landed in the fountain a second later with a loud splash.

Fred and Nox stared at the gurgling fountain in shock, and then turned slowly back to look at the old tree towering above them. Its branches shuddered and creaked ominously, but there wasn't a breath of wind in the warm afternoon. All at once, the picturesque apple tree, with its bright green leaves and rosy apples, didn't look so friendly.

Their eyes slid back to each other. Fred broke out in a nervous grin. "I think there's a floor inside that we haven't checked out yet."

Nox nodded numbly. "I'm for that."

**oOo**

George and Lucie were walking their mounts back to the Estate, enjoying the brilliant, fiery sunset over the moors. The purple heather looked aflame in the light of the setting sun, and George hadn't felt so content in a very long time. They stopped for a time and chatted as the sun sank lower and the sky began to turn a dark purple, streaked with red and pink clouds. George had long discarded their original plan of hunting down the sheep-killer. He wasn't worried – but then George rarely concerned himself with worries. Besides, going on a hunt had only been a subtle ploy to spend more time with Lucie.

"Martha's going to be in a right old stomp when we get back," said Lucie as they climbed up to sit on an old dry stone wall. "Or Mrs Ternwip! She'll have my guts for garters."

But George just waved his hand in the air and shifted closer to her. "Who's going to care if we bug off for an hour?"

Lucie gave him amused look. "It's ten o'clock. The _sun_ is setting. Mrs Ternwip will be furious, and she's even more terrifying when she's angry."

"Please," scoffed George. "I've met taller, darker, scarier folk with much bigger beaks," he told her, recalling a certain Potions teacher. "So Ternwip's married, eh? That's a terrifying thought." He gave an exaggerated shudder.

Lucie giggled and her laughter made his chest feel a bit tight. "You know," she said, "I don't think I've ever seen her husband before. And she's always around the house. Although I think John might be-"

Lucie couldn't finish, for George had leaned in to plant a kiss on her open mouth. After a moment, he felt her lean closer towards him, and so snaked his arm around her little waist to pull her even closer. George wasn't really sure what had come over him. Since Fred's death, he hadn't dated a single girl. Most of the time he felt too guilty to even contemplate it, but Lucie was so sweet and so gentle that stealing a little kiss was all he could do to stop himself from throwing her over his shoulder, jumping on a broomstick and flying away.

When they pulled apart, neither said a word; they just smiled at each other with silent understanding. George brushed his fingers across her hand gently, feeling the weather and tear from all her work in the kitchens and stables.

Lucie gazed at him shyly. "We should probably head home now."

"Come on, let's stay out a bit longer," he beseeched her, disappointed that their day together might be cut short so soon after discovering such a pleasant new pastime. "Besides, we still haven't found and banished this Beast of Dartmoor."

"Which is exactly why we should go now," said Lucie and pulled away from his grip. George sighed, defeated, and hopped off the wall after her.

It was an all too short ride back to the Estate, and soon they were standing in the stable's courtyard, the sun having long since set, having been replaced by a bright full moon. George clasped his hands around Lucie's back and rested his forehead against hers, grinning contently.

Lucie shook her head at him. "You look like the cat that caught his mouse."

"Well," he chuckled, "you're a cute mouse to catch."

"You _amaze_ me," she said, a tiny hint of sarcasm in her voice, and buried her head under his chin for a moment.

"True. I'm a pretty amazing individual," he replied, breathing the scent of her hair in, and kissed her head. "Hope Ternwip doesn't lock you away in the highest tower. Your hair's a bit short for me to climb up."

"She's not as bad as all that," Lucie protested, batting his chest and stepping away. "I'll see you in the morning."

"You're not coming in?" George asked, raising his eyebrows.

Lucie shook her head. "I have to feed the horses. It'll only take me ten minutes."

"All right then." He caught her hand and pulled her in for another quick kiss. "See you in the morning." Lucie nodded, a bit breathless, and as George strolled away across the cobbled courtyard towards the main house, he felt so elated that he missed the flash of purple eyes peering from the shadows, and the strong smell of tobacco which drifted after him.

**oOo**

Fred was sitting on the edge of the fountain, resting his head on his folded hands and staring hard at the old apple tree, dappled with silver moonlight. He had been sitting in the garden for a good hour now, but nothing out of the norm had happened so far. Fred had thought long and hard on what the tree might be harbouring – ghosts, brownies, bowtruckles; but he had quickly proved each theory wrong. For the briefest of moments, Fred fancied he might pick Hermione's brain a bit as Nox had very little _real_ knowledge of magical beasts. But the very thought of going to Hermione for help and having to see that smug look on her face repulsed him.

Fred turned as a pair of familiar sounding footsteps crossed the grass towards him. George was looking very pleased with himself.

Fred quirked an eyebrow, smirking. "Have fun, little brother?"

"Turns out country life isn't as dull as I'd expected," said George and took a seat on the fountain beside him. "Why're you out here? Where's Nox got to?"

"Taking a bath. Apparently, I'm not welcome." He shot his brother a wicked glance. "Can't imagine why. But I'm glad to get out of that house. Why'd they have to cook every thing in apples? Even I'm beginning to smell 'em! It's mental."

George laughed. "Forgot you can't stand rich people."

"There's something up with that tree, you know," said Fred suddenly.

"Yeah? Like what?" asked George. "You think it's got a curse on it?"

"Nah, not exactly," Fred began, steepling his fingers. "It's like it's alive or something. Earlier today it sent an apple flying out my hand, and I think it had something to do with that face at the window the first night we were here. It's spooky."

"Ah, look what you've done, you heartless birch!" said George and pointed his finger accusingly at the old tree. "Spooking a ghost like this - have you no shame?"

"Shut up. And it's an apple tree, you stupid git," Fred grumbled. "Poxy plants; they're only good for firewood and falling out of."

George raised his eyebrows, looking a bit taken aback by Fred's behaviour. "That thing really is making you uncomfortable, isn't it?" he said incredulously, but his twin didn't answer him.

"C'mon," said Fred after a while. "Let's go back inside. I wanna give Nox a good scare before the night's out."

**oOo**

Lucie hated being out in the stables so late at night. If she hadn't wanted to make such a good impression on George, she would have asked him to stay. It certainly didn't seem like he would have complained. The thought made her cheeks burn.

But there had been stories drifting this past year; horrid stories. The dead sheep on the moor was only one of many Lucie had been hearing, and she had to wonder at what truly happened to poor Catherine.

She wasn't the only one feeling spooked, Lucie noticed with concern. The two ponies were becoming increasingly distressed, pacing around their stables with wide, wary eyes, and shaking their long heads. Neither touched their food and their eyes kept flicking towards the moor.

Something hard rolled suddenly across the floor and bumped against her foot.

"What on earth?" Lucie whispered, and then took a sharp intake of breath when she saw a little black rabbit's eye staring blankly up at her; its decapitated head resting against her boot.

Lucie's hand flew to her mouth as she realised there was a trail of rabbit corpses leading out the stable door. She followed the trail from the courtyard, feeling queasy and not a little brave, until she came to the rosebushes which separated the grounds from the wild moor, and stared in horror. Upon the thorny spikes were pierced all the missing rabbit heads from the snares.

Then suddenly, a dreadful howl pierced the night, loud and low and full of malice. Lucie bolted towards the house, her heart beating frantically in her chest. She tried to cry for help, but the sound that left her throat was a strangled scream as something huge and monstrous leapt over the boundary between the wild land and the Estate, catching her between its huge claws.

**oOo**

A terrible cry echoed around the Estate. Every light was turned on; every bed cover had been thrown off, and the sound of running feet thundered towards the entrance hall. George tore down the main stairs into the hallway, followed closely by Fred and Nox.

Mrs Ternwip was already standing by the front door, fully clothed and holding a lit candelabra. Her pale, tight face was stricken with shock.

"What's happened?" George shouted, grabbing Martha, who was sobbing into her nightgown, by her shoulders and shook her roughly. "Where is she? Where's Lucie? Tell me!" He shook the sobbing woman harder until Nox grabbed his arms and pulled him away.

The front door swung open and Ben dragged his feet across the floor, limping and wincing in pain. His shirt was blood-soaked and he was carrying a large bundle wrapped in his jacket.

Fred's mouth fell agape, and Nox tightened her grip on George, whose hands fell limply away from Martha's shoulders. The colour drained from his face.

"She's gone," Ben muttered, his dirty bronze face torn with grief. "She's dead."

**oOo**

**  
**

* * *

**Next Chapter: 'Moon'** - In which one villain is revealed.**  
**

**A/N:** Talk about kicking someone when they're down, eh? Poor Georgie. Don't worry, things will pick up for him… eventually… Well, maybe with Luna's arrival (lé grin). So, has anyone worked out the mystery yet? xxx


	6. Casebook 01: Moon

**A/N: **My goodness, thank you so much for all your reviews, favs, author alerts and emails, people! I really can't thank you enough! Especially to **Svenly **and **Leaviel **who were kind enough to draw fanart for the story (& of course my wonderful muse, **Caith**). I always think my writing's pants, but you lot really give me a boost of much needed confidence.

I'm currently building quite a lot of Twin Vice fanart up over on my deviant account (**weasley-detectives . deviantart . com,** without the spaces of course), so please check it out if you've got the time!

Since writing this fic, I've had an incurable hunger for Jammy Dodgers. Hmm.

**This chapter has been Beta Read by BloodRayne (Mugglenet forums) and Stringofpearls (Fictionalley Forums). **

* * *

_ 'Rash is he who at unknown doors, relies on his good luck,  
But a young man's will is the will of the wind.'_

- The Eddas

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook 01: Moon

**oOo**

Fred was talking at George, trying fervently to shake him out of his reverie, but George could not tear his eyes away from the little body in Ben's arms. A few tufts of dirty golden hair were poking out from beneath the old man's blood-stained jacket.

Reluctantly, Ben placed the body on a long bench; a strange contrast to the grandiose of the entrance hall. He seemed loath to let her go, but George had little sympathy for the old man. He stood over the still body with a bitter heart, trying to block out Martha's awful anguished cries as she sobbed hard into Nox's shoulder. Mrs Ternwip had not said a word, and she hadn't dared to come any closer to the body.

"What happened?" George managed, his voice strangled.

Ben turned away from him, wiping his grubby brow, beaded with sweat. "Tha' don't matter."

Furious at this casual statement, George spun around and grabbed the old man by his collar, hoisting him up off the floor. "What do you mean it doesn't matter? Of course it matters! How can you say that when you've got a dead body lying here?" he spat, hotly. "This how Catherine wound up too, eh? Swept her body under the rug, did you?"

"George!" Nox pleaded while simultaneously attempting to keep a grip on Martha who had begun sobbing all the harder at the raised voices. "Please! You're not helping."

Suddenly, a terrible baying, a prolonged howl of horror, swept through the open front door out of the black moor. The awful sound froze all commotion and movement in the hall, even stifled Martha's inconsolable sobbing, silenced all except Fred, who swore very loudly. George loosened his grip on the old man.

Nox raised her palm to her forehead and stared wide-eyed at the open door. "Hell's bells," she muttered. "What was that? What does it mean?" She looked to Ben. "Have you got wolves on the run out there or something?"

"Perhaps you might answer us that," said Mrs Ternwip, a frosty edge to her voice. "After all, I do believe that _you_ are the detective, Mr Wolfe."

Nox glowered at the tall woman, while Martha resumed weeping into her shoulder.

George, on the other hand, did not look at all surprised. He scowled at Ben and dragged him closer so that they were almost nose to nose. "You knew, didn't you?" he questioned him, bitingly. "All this time you've had one on the loose, and never alerted any authority?"

"How should we 'ave known?" the old man said miserably. "It never came this close before. Never even bit a human. It were s'pposed to be under control."

Another awful baying swept across the moors and into the open door of Rosewood hall, this time louder and much closer than before. George dumped the old man none too gently to the floor and darted towards the open door, calling back over his shoulder, "Fred, stay with Nox and make sure they barricade the door!"

"O-oi! George, wait up!" Fred cried out after his twin, but George had already disappeared through the front door and was bounding through the apple orchards, merging with the darkness. Seconds later a loud _crack_ resonated across the Estate.

**oOo**

"He's mad!" wailed Martha, trembling. "God, the poor lad's mad." She pulled away from Nox and grabbed Ben's arms, her plump, red face stricken and streaked with tears. "Go and get 'im back! Bring him in before he's eaten! If you don't go out there, Ben Weatherby, I swear I'll go myself."

Nox was still staring at the door, feeling torn between wanting to discover the source of that horrid low moan and wanting to slam the door shut and barricade it by any means possible. Suddenly, Fred's transparent face was in front of her, frowning and mouthing something hastily. She tuned in halfway through what looked to be a stern lecture.

"- and you're not going to let your big, clumsy, curious feet follow us, you got that?" Fred was telling her, placing his icy hands on her shoulders. "You listening? _No following!_" he commanded, pronouncing the last words very clearly, as though he was talking to a dumb animal.

Nox narrowed her grey eyes at him, feeling as though she had just been reduced to the role of pet dog. "Do you want me to roll over and beg, while I'm at it?"

"Another time," he replied hurriedly, and then dashed out of the door and into the open moors where his twin had disappeared into the gloom.

Martha was still rowing noisily with Ben, who had taken down a long rifle from the wall and was loading it with a grim face. Suddenly, Mrs Ternwip, revived by some unknown means, went striding across the hallway to the open door. Nox turned to look at her.

"Close all the doors at once," Mrs Ternwip was saying briskly. "I want the windows shuttered and everyone armed and moved up to the third floor immediately."

"You're kidding me!" spluttered Nox in alarm. "What about George? He's out there by himself with some… some _animal_, and you're not going to lift a finger to help him?"

"What do you propose we do?" said Mrs Ternwip crisply.

"Isn't that obvious?" Nox yelled. "Call the bloody police, for crying out loud!"

Mrs Ternwip slammed the door shut with such force that the entire hall trembled. "You, Mr Wolfe, are the only authoritative figure for miles," she said, her voice rising.

Nox gawped at her in disbelief. "I'm a detective, not a zookeeper!"

"Then I would suggest that you start _detecting_."

There was a pause as a silent battle of wills raged between them. And then something about her host caught Nox's eye. Like lightning, something clicked in her head, and her brain seemed to move faster, connecting several pieces of a very complex puzzle.

Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled wryly at her aggressor. "Believe me, I am."

Mrs Ternwip stood there for a moment, her long, pale face twisted and seething, but Nox's remark seemed to have unnerved her. The woman's eyes darted between Ben and Martha and the little motionless body on the bench, then back to the defiant detective in her baggy pyjamas and dressing gown. She sneered and spun away, storming towards the stairs.

"Everyone will meet on the third floor!" Mrs Ternwip barked. "Under no circumstances is anyone to leave this building."

Nox watched the woman retreat and muttered, "We'll see about that." She ran towards Ben, eyeing the gleaming rifle in his hands thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you have anything smaller than that?" she asked him, running her fingers distractedly through her flopping hair. "Oh, and a thick pair of boots if you've got them."

Martha just stared at her with wide, frightened eyes.

"A skinny little townie can't do nothin' 'gainst the wolves when they run," said Ben gloomily. "Tha' has no idea what you're up against. An' you're better off not knowin' neither."

Nox grimaced. She'd had just about all she could take from these shadow-fearing people. She was a realist – as much as she could be in these circumstances, at least – and she wasn't about to let a faceless monster keep her shut away indoors while George was out on the moors, potentially risking his life.

"That's all well and good," said Nox, snatching the rifle up from the old man's hands. "But it's better than waiting around for another body to come through the door."

"Please, lad, you don't understand," pleaded Martha, grabbing Nox by the sleeve of her pyjama's sleeve.

"No, I don't," said Nox, truthfully. "Not yet, anyway."

******oOo**

The night sky was clear and spattered with stars. A full moon shone starkly, lining each boulder and tuft of ferns in a silver, uncertain light so that everything around George looked alive and ready to pounce. After a quick search, he had located the path Lucie had taken onto the moors only hours before, and was now clambering across the horrid, eerie land, wand outstretched and lighting his way. A dense grey fog hung motionless over the moor head of him. His eyes were stinging with angry tears.

Another long, shuddering howl filled the night.

George narrowed his eyes towards the drift of fog. "So that's where you're hiding, you big hairy bugger." He tapped his wand and muttered, "Nox", softly. The light went out and George was drenched in shadow, his only guide now the bright full moon.

George slowed his pace and leapt off the path, hopping across the marshy ground from one tuft of grass to the other. He frowned and cursed when his right foot plunged through a treacherous tuft, deep into bog. If he hadn't found his balance as quickly as he'd lost it, George wouldn't have been surprised if he'd sank right down to his neck.

At last he came to a cluster of boulders on the edge of the drifting fog. The immense crags and rocky tors cast long black shadows, perfect for hiding in. George began to creep around them, keeping to the dark and careful not to disturb any of the loose stones scattered across the ground. He furrowed his brow in surprise as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom; it looked as though he had stumbled across the ruins of a farmhouse. He could see the line of what must have once been a wall, and black embers scattered from the vestiges of a fireplace. A strange object caught his wandering eye. George hunched down in the deep shadow of a large overhanging rock, and picked up what looked to be a thick piece of bark. On further inspection, George could see writing carved deep into it and the curve of what looked to be two crescent moons.

Suddenly something hit his shoulder with a loud squelch. Surprised, George craned his neck around to look; a large blob of saliva was oozing down the front of his jacket. George leapt out of the shadow and stared upwards at the overhanging tor – there was the beast, its large shaggy head staring down at him. A low, guttural growl resonated in its chest and its huge mouth hung open, revealing row after row of sharp, glittering teeth; there was fresh blood on its lips.

The sight of the werewolf momentarily chilled George to the bone, and his wand felt like lead as he pointed it towards the creature's blazing yellow eyes, but he was too late – that split second had cost him dearly. As George raised his wand to shout out his curse, the werewolf was already in mid-leap. Its enormous paws collided with his chest and knocked him off his feet, and the wand went flying out of his hand.

George skidded across the stony ground and the werewolf bounded after him, yammering and snapping its jaws. He groped frantically for his wand, but felt only the loose gravel scattered there and the monster was almost on top of him. He grinned cockily at the beast then rolled sharply to the side so that the werewolf crashed headlong into one of the ruined walls behind him.

"Sod it, sod it, sod it!" he muttered, scrambling around on the ground for his wand while the beast behind him struggled to untangle itself from the rocks. "Where is that stupid thing! Aha!" he shouted triumphantly, spotting the small instrument.

"George! Get back!" shouted Fred, and on instinct George pulled back his outstretched hand and nimbly jumped away seconds before the werewolf's massive jaws snapped at empty air, its terrible tongue wagging and spattering him with saliva.

"Good call, Fred!" George laughed, darting across the ruins in a bid to evade the monster. "Saved me a limb there and a good thing too – can't think of many no-hand jokes."

"How shameful of you, I can think of plenty hand-related humour!" Fred grinned. "Where's your wand?"

George scrambled on top of a wall as the werewolf galloped towards him. "It's down there, just where I was standing a second ago." He pointed. "And hurry up - I don't much fancy being turned into dog food."

Fred searched the ground frantically, quickly spotting the wand to his left, lying half in shadow. Concentrating hard, he swooped low to pick it up, but his spirit quickly sank. "Uh… George…"

"What is it?" George shouted irritably, swinging his right leg up onto the wall seconds before the snarling werewolf had the chance to snap it clean off.

"I don't think your wand'll be up to much, mate," said Fred and lifted the item up for his twin to see. George paled. "It must have snapped when you fell. You'd better belt it out of here!"

"Oh, that's a spanking idea! Why'd I not think of that sooner?" He scrambled higher up the ruins on his backside, pelting the monster with rocks and clods of dirt. Fred rushed towards him as the great big bulk of the werewolf clambered further up the crumbling wall.

Fred swallowed thickly and muttered, "You might be joining me sooner than you'd hoped."

******oOo**

Nox raced down the path through the apple orchards, Ben's rifle slung across her shoulder. Behind her lay the dark bulk of Rosewood estate, looking monstrous with its one lit window gleaming like a golden eye in the head of a giant Cyclops. The copses of trees moaned and swung in the rising wind. Nox decided this wasn't doing her nerves any good, and when she caught the grim face of a stone soldier through the trees, she gasped, lost her footing, and went crashing to the ground in an undignified heap.

When she opened her eyes again, she found her nose inches away from the base of one evil looking statue. Nox half expected the lump of stone to turn its Goblin-esque head around and roar at her. Thankfully, the statue kept its beady eyes staring blankly forward and its ugly mouth shut, but something else about it had her attention rapt. There was writing, she realised with a start, scribbled across the soldier's chest: two sets of initials, JT and CB, inside two interlocking crescent moons.

Nox stored the piece of information away and scrambled to her feet, setting off again at an even faster pace. She didn't relish the idea of roaming the lonely, ill-omened moor all by herself, but as she made her way out of the Estate she caught sight of a little bobbing light crossing the wild country, moving briskly towards a patch of drifting fog.

Relief flooded her. _'There you are,'_ but just as soon as she'd thought this did the light wink out of existence. Her heart lurched and she pumped her legs furiously down the path, across the road and onto the marshy moors. Nox couldn't find any sign of a path and she was forced to plough headlong onto the wild moor, leaping from tuft to rock and using the heather for leverage. The sucking, wet marsh swallowed her feet, sometimes right up to her knees.

A hideous howl broke around her, followed by a long, awful silence where even the wind seemed to drop as if in anticipation for a battle that was about to break.

Then suddenly, a dreadful clamour broke the silence - barking and yammering; an inhuman and barely canine tumult. Nox clambered over a high, rocky tor, and found Fred and George in a wide pit, facing off an enormous hound bathed in moonlight. The giant dog was not unlike the hound in her book, only flesh and blood and slavering wildly, its yellow eyes rolling in its beastly head.

Nox grasped inertly for her rifle, lips parting in amazement. Her mind fell utterly paralysed by the spectacle before her.

George spotted her on the tor and shook his head in warning.

"_Get back!_" he whispered fiercely. "You can't kill a werewolf with that poxy Muggle thing!"

Fred's head shot towards Nox and he groaned in despair. "Meddlesome _and_ deaf!" He rolled his eyes skyward. "You ever going to listen to me?"

"You didn't listen to George. Why should I have listened to you?" she mumbled back, never taking her eyes from the hellish creature before her that had just now noticed her arrival and was beginning to pad softly towards the tor she was perched upon.

"Yeah, and look where it's got me." Fred jabbed a finger at the savage werewolf. "If I were alive, I'd be _dead._"

The monster raised itself to its full, terrifying height, its hackles raised and bristling, and snapped its head between George and Nox, as if trying to decide who to maul first. Fear flooded her, paralysing every nerve so that the rifle in her hands shook madly. As if sensing her fear, the hound snarled and with long bounds it began leaping towards Nox. George plunged forwards, grabbing the werewolf by its tail and pulling hard. It roared in outrage and spun around to bite him, but George was too quick for it and ducked the attack, all the while dragging the werewolf further and further from the tor.

"Who's afraid of the big bad wolf!" sang Fred, smacking the monster across the head again and again with rocks and clods of mud. "Come on, George, you almost had him there! Put a bit of muscle into it!"

"I would, but I'm trying to avoid the teeth at the other end," said George, just as the werewolf spun around and lashed its tail wildly in the air. The sudden, fierce movement caused George to lose his grip, and he went crashing against the edge of the pit and flopped to the ground, barely conscious.

Fred shouted after him, fearfully. The werewolf was snarling and making a steady pace towards his twin, its slavering lips drooling in anticipation.

Just then, the air exploded as Nox fired a trembling shot, but the bullet missed and split a small limestone boulder ten feet away. The werewolf sneered at her, and then resumed its steady stalk towards the twin who was pinned against the edge of the pit, half-conscious. Nox swore and cracked the rifle, shoving more bullets in and locking them into place as fast as her shaking hands would let her. The werewolf growled and leapt towards George as she aimed the trembling rifle once more. There was a _CRACK_ and a pair of cold arms wrapped around her, steadying the barrels as much as they could. She fired.

There was a piercing yelp of pain, and George cracked an eye open as the creature crashed to the ground before him, writhing in agony as blood streamed from a wound in its belly. George slumped and sighed with relief, cradling an injured arm to his chest.

"George!" Fred shouted, dropping Nox like a stone and dashing over to his twin. "Oi, George! You all right? It didn't bite you, did it? Oi, speak to me you daft git!"

"Bark."

Fred's goggled at his twin. "...What?" he asked in a small voice.

George chuckled. "Heh. Gotcha."

"Prat," said Fred and scuffed his twin across the head.

George beamed back at him. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

Fred eyed the writhing werewolf and grinned broadly. "Well, if nothing else, this'll have Nox convinced we're the real deal. Right! Let's get out of here while we still can."

Skirting the thrashing werewolf, whose head was still snapping and lashing out at them, Fred and George raced back up the tor to usher Nox away. She was still pale and shaken with shock. It took the twins a full ten minutes to convince her to move again, at which point the werewolf was almost on its paws again. George directed them back to the path, and together the three pelted their way across the moor and didn't dare stop again until they had reached the front steps of Rosewood Estate.

George hammered furiously on the door. "Open up, Ternwip, it's us!" he bellowed furiously.

Nox sat down heavily on the topmost step and dropped her head between her knees, trying to catch her breath. "Werewolves," she said, panting. "Big, snarling, slobbering werewolves." She raised herself up and propped her head on her hand, laughing half-heartedly. "Of course. Why ever not! Just bring on the dragons and the griffins while you're at it."

"Sorry, no dragons in these parts," said George, who had taken a break from beating down the door.

"But if you fancy, we might take you to Romania," grinned Fred. "Our brother, Charlie, works with 'em there."

Nox gazed at the twins in amazement, then tossed her head back and laughed a little deliriously. "You know what, sure. Why not? Why the bleeding hell not? My nerves are already shattered, after all. What's a few more monsters with big, sharp, pointy teeth?"

"That's the spirit, Noxy!" said Fred, clapping a cold hand against her back. It felt like a bucket of water had just been tossed down her pyjama top.

"Come on, Ternwip!" George hammered on the door again. "We're not about to bite your flipping head off!"

"Literally, anyway. I might have to let you inside myself at this rate. Don't know if I can work a lock, mind, they're a bit fiddly." Fred grunted, glaring at the door as if it had deeply offended him. "Remind me to haunt that old crow when we're finished up here."

George threw his fist against the door again and yelled, "TERNWI-"

The door suddenly swung inwards and George had to stop himself from toppling across the threshold into the slight frame of a young girl with pale, tumbling hair. She stood staring at them, her pale familiar green eyes narrowing severely.

Nox leapt to her feet, gawping. "Audra!"

"Did you kill it?" the girl shouted furiously. "Is it dead?"

"Y-yeah," stuttered Nox, taken aback. This wasn't how she remembered her first encounter with the timid young girl. "At least, I shot it."

"No thanks to you," said Fred mutinously, glaring at the girl.

Audra's pale cheeks seemed to flush happily at this news, though the deep frown embedded in her forehead never shifted. "Get inside and go upstairs," she ordered them briskly. "If you're so desperate to talk with me, I shall do so at a more suitable hour. Now, I suggest you retire for the night."

******oOo**

Fred and George followed Nox into her room. All three of them looked weary and dishevelled after the day's events; especially Nox, who was still in her night things, now caked in a thick layer of mud.

"I'm pooped!" Fred wiped his hands over his face and groaned loudly. "I just want to sleep. Can't this wait 'til tomorrow?"

Nox shook her head. "No, it can't. Besides, I don't see how a ghost can feel tired."

"Technically, I can't, but I _remember_ how it feels," said Fred, stretching his arms behind his head. "Mind's a powerful thing, you know – didn't George tell you that the first day you met us?"

"Oh. I didn't realise that's what he meant," Nox replied vaguely, sinking into the nearest armchair by the fireplace. "So where do we go from here? I mean, I think we all suspected Audra as being the werewolf. She's the one who's been ill this past week after all. Not to mention, she invited us here in the first place." Nox sighed. "But Audra obviously hasn't transformed tonight."

"But she knew there was a werewolf on the loose. It can't have been Catherine, can it?" George said musingly. "I mean, did you see how chuffed Audra was to hear you'd shot it? She wouldn't have been that happy if it had been her own sister," he commented, and Nox nodded thoughtfully in reply.

"Hang on a minute," said Fred, raising his hands, with a small smile on his lips. "How's it that you know anything about werewolves, is what I'd like to know, Nox?"

"My dad," Nox replied easily. "I told you he was a nut job. Never in my nelly puff thought that his crazy ramblings and theories might be of some use to me one day."

Fred turned and frowned at his twin. "'Nelly Puff'?"

"Must be a Scottish thing," George replied leaning against the mantelpiece. He looked more exhausted than any of them. Nox was once again struck by how strange a contrast it was to the eccentric George she had met only five days ago in London.

Fred glanced at his brother for a moment, then shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet, hovering a few inches off the ground. "It won't be very difficult finding the werewolf. I mean, all we have to do is scout about for a Muggle with a great, big, gaping hole in their stomach."

"Well, it's not like we can interrogate anyone or go out and examine the place Lucie… where she was attacked," said George heavily, falling back into the armchair opposite Nox, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Fred watched his twin sadly, then, after a moment, he began brightly, "So then, let's start with knocking off the Muggles we know for sure can't be a werewolf."

They bantered back and forth for a while, each describing in detail the events that had preceded Lucie's death, but as the hours wore on and the sky began to lighten outside, Nox began to feel the effect of sleep deprivation. She had curled up in the armchair and was leaning her head open-mouthed against her little red notebook. Fred, being the first to have fallen asleep, was snoring loudly, his silver body slumped across the back of George's armchair.

George, however, was still wide awake and thinking hard, leaning his chin on his steepled fingers. His mind kept mulling over the events of the previous days – he was sure he was missing something, but what?

Then an image seemed to flash before his eyes like a photograph, clear as day – a face that he had seen once in a ward at St Mungo's Hospital, many years ago; a face that George had seen again only yesterday on the moors.

"I knew it," he breathed, then leapt up so suddenly that Fred and Nox fell out of their chairs. "I _knew_ it. The man on the moors!" he continued. "The bloke who told us about the thing responsible for gobbling up all the sheep here. Hell, I knew he seemed a bit too eager to get us off the moors."

"George, do you have to be so loud?" said Nox, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes. "You'll wake the dead with all your bellowing."

"Too late," muttered Fred irritably, stretching and yawning. "What's all this about a man on the moor? I never saw anyone."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? You were with Nox," said George, plainly. "But you have seen him before. On a separate occasion, mind, but you have seen him."

Fred peered at his twin, who was pacing back and forth across the floor, picking up his tailed bottle-green coat and twirling it on inside out. "Lugless...is your mind affected? You sure you weren't bitten last night?"

George ignored his question. "Fred, remember when Dad was bitten by Voldie's snake and we went to visit him in St Mungos?"

Fred nodded. "Couldn't forget that in a hurry."

"Do you remember who was in the ward next to him?" said George excitably.

"Vaguely..." Fred suddenly raised his eyebrows. "Wait up, not that sod who'd just been bitten by a werewolf; the one who threatened Dad with a bite?" He whistled long and loud. "So he was a Muggle, then?"

"Must have been. Ministry by law has to deal with all werewolf attacks. They keep a record on every one in the country," George answered, and began looking eagerly around for his wristwatch.

Fred snorted and rolled his eyes. "Well, they're doing a right bang up job. How many Muggles has old wolfie scoffed down now, do you reckon?" He caught the expression on his twin's face and coughed embarrassedly. "Eh – sorry, George..."

"It's fine," George muttered quickly, "don't worry. Anyway, after the Last War the Ministry's been caught up in flushing out the last of the Death Eaters and Snatchers. It's not surprising that a few werewolves have slipped through the net."

"Wait – wait - wait! You're doing it again," said Nox, pointing a finger at the twins accusingly. "You can't expect me to work with you two if you go off ranting about… about wars and Ministries and Death Gobblers all the time."

"_Eaters_," Fred corrected, smirking. "_Death Eaters._"

Nox ignored him. "Well, anyway, let's stick to the important details. George, you're saying you know who the werewolf is?"

George nodded his head again. "I told you about him last night. His name's John. He was bitten about seven years ago. I met him again on the moor yesterday, with Lucie."

"I see." Nox took a long breath and sank deeper into her armchair, coiling her hand around her chin and frowning deeply. "I'm not so sure he killed Catherine, though."

"Why'd you say that?" said George, struggling to sort his inside-out bottle-green jacket, outside-in again. "Pretty young blonde girl bobbing about the moors every day? That bloody Muggle probably had his eye on her for a while."

"Hang on a minute, George," Fred protested. "We don't know that yet."

But George didn't seem to hear his twin. "I didn't like that Muggle the moment I clapped eyes on him," he was saying, pulling on his shoes again, "and I'll bet you a hundred Galleons that John wolfed down Catherine last year, too."

With that, George left the room in such a hurry that he nearly toppled the silver supper table on his way out.

"This is a turn of events," Fred sighed, watching his twin's retreat and frowning uncomfortably. "Usually it's me storming off, deaf to the world."

Nox glanced at him sidelong and muttered, "I can imagine that."

Fred scratched the back of his neck, looking tense and out of place. "I've never seen George act so… stubborn. Never thought I'd be the one trying to talk some sense into him."

Nox studied Fred's profile for a moment and for the first time it struck her just how hard it must have been for George to lose his twin. _'And now to lose Lucie too,'_ she thought sadly.

"Come on," Fred ordered with a mulish expression. "We'd better catch up to him."

******oOo**

* * *

******A/N: **Kudos goes to the people who guessed at the Werewolf! I know I might have said this was to be the last chapter in the first casebook, but it was turning out to be way too long again, so I've split it down the middle. Next chapter will be out fairly soon (probably by the end of the week as I'm off to uni on Saturday). Please review, I love to hear what you think of the story! Cheers guys xxx******  
**


	7. Casebook Closed: Wrath

**A/N:** Booya! The first casebook's over! Only six more to go, one for each loverly Vice (and in case anyone doesn't know, a vice is a sin - in this case one of the seven deadly sins). I honestly can't thank you guys enough for all the reviews. I've recently hit some bad health and my course at university as been postponed for a year because of it, so right now this fic is pretty much the only thing keeping me cheery. You just can't stay down when writing about the twins… even if it is in the context of a pretty morbid plot (I prefer to think of it as Black Comedy though, hehe). Anyways, hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is really appreciated.

* * *

'_Oh, Johnny!_ _Oh, Johnny!__  
How you can love!  
Oh, Johnny! Oh, Johnny!  
Heavens above!  
You make my sad heart jump with joy,  
And when you're near I just  
Can't sit still a minute.  
I'm so, Oh, Johnny! Oh, Johnny!  
Please tell me dear.  
What makes me love you so?  
You're not handsome, it's true,  
But when I look at you,  
I just, Oh, Johnny!  
Oh, Johnny! Oh!'_

-- The Andrews Sisters

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook Closed: Wrath

**oOo**

A dense, white fog hung across the moor and all around Rosewood Estate, its wispy wraith-like fingers banking against the front door as if demanding entrance to the house. Nox could not have pictured a more haunting scene. Everywhere around her there rose the dark outlines of tall, daunting trees, gruesome statues, and gurgling fountains, and not for the first time did she appreciate the company, and the irony, of having a ghost by her side in this intimidating place.

Fred was drifting alongside her, straining hard through the fog. It was getting very difficult to see him against the white mist. Now Nox could only make out his eyes, but she supposed she couldn't have lost him if she had wanted to. After all, Fred wasn't exactly one to stay silent for any long period of time.

"Come on, Lugless," he was saying to himself, sweeping through one tree after another. "Where've you gotten to?"

"Maybe it's just a hunch," Nox began carefully, eyeing the blurry outline of the Estate house, whose gothic turrets were disappearing high into the fog, "I know there's been some foul play afoot, and I know the werewolf killed Lucie last night, but I don't think it killed Catherine a year ago."

Fred grunted at her. "You've got your head on upside down, Nox. Remember how happy Audra was to hear you shot it last night?" he said. "S'like George said, isn't it? Catherine was probably bobbing about on the moor one evening, helpless as a lamb when before she knew it, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, the moon was up and she was in old grizzly's stomach."

Nox shook her head at him, looking completely disgusted. "You have the emotional sensitivity of a brick wall, you know that?"

Fred glanced at her, eyes twinkling, and continued casually, "Werewolves always go for pretty, young girls. Haven't you ever read a fairytale before?" He paused and shot her a nasty smirk. "Wait, I forgot – Nutty Nox is a _realist_," he said, spitting the last word out as if it were diseased.

Her eyes reflected his humour for the briefest of moments and she replied, "I think you could do with a good dose of reality yourself."

"Interesting concept." Fred's grin darkened and his eyes flashed with amusement. "Coincidentally, I was thinking you could do with a good dose of insanity."

Nox found she could not withstand that awful leering any longer and quickly turned her reddening face away from the ghost. "Well, anyway, say we do cross off John as a murder suspect, just for the time being – who are we left with? It could be someone else entirely, of course, but considering last night's events, my gut feeling tells me that we're close to something – something that _someone_ doesn't want us to discover. But what could Catherine have done to warrant her murder? What was the motive? And was Lucie's fate just the unlucky chance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was there something more to it?"

"Merlin's pants, you're morbid!" Fred groaned despairingly, running a hand through his hair. "You're a tad obsessed with death, don't you think? He's been murdered! She's been murdered!" Fred shoved his hands in his pockets in a disgruntled manner. "Anybody'd think that you're the ruddy dead-beat around here."

"You hired me as a Paranormal Detective," said Nox firmly. "Morbidity comes with the job description."

"Does shortness of stature and flatness of chest also come with the job description?" Fred quipped in reply.

"Thank your lucky stars you're dead, Fred, otherwise I'd clock you one," she informed him calmly. "Look, all I'm trying to say is that I don't think last night was an accident. I'm positive that attack on Lucie was meant for George. And my current hunch is telling me Ternwip had something to do with it…" Nox stopped and glanced around. "Damn, I think we've been here before. I recognise that statue," she said, pointing at the vague form of a stone soldier.

"What, that statue there?" Fred asked, his tone ringing with sarcasm. "The one that looks exactly like the other two dozen statues dotted about the place? Look, there's the house. We'll head round it to the stables. That's where George left Lucie last night." He picked up his speed, drifting away into the thick cloud ahead of her, and leaving Nox to follow the sound of his voice. "It's probably around about that area where she was attacked. Come on, move your caboose!"

"I'll hurry up, if you slow down!" she hollered back, staggering after him. Fred didn't reply and soon she lost all sight of him. Her mouth twisted and she grumbled quietly, "Selfish idiot."

Nox reached her arms out to steady herself as she stumbled across what she could only assume was the path to the stables. "When I get back to London, the first thing I'm picking up is a pack of Silk Cu -" Her voice suddenly hitched when her ankle caught something big and bulky lying across the path, causing her to hop on one foot for a couple of metres before she regained her balance.

Nox turned to retrace her steps, waiting for the heavy blanket of white to part just enough to peer at the object which had broken her path. She jumped with a start, a horrible sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach when the drift cleared and she saw what had caused her stumble. Behind a thin veil of mist, a pair of eyes stared listlessly at her from dark sockets in a familiar head, a look of terror eternally etched onto its white face. Nox dived towards the body, searching frantically for a pulse, only to pull her hands back just as quickly from the punctured, cold flesh.

Suddenly, George came careening around the corner, nearly toppling over Nox where she was crouched on the path.

"Nox?" asked George, squinting at her. "What are you doing down…" His sentence was cut short as he spied the staring, lifeless eyes below him. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Ternwip."

**oOo**

"Miss Gertrude Wolfe…" the officer began languidly, reading from the identification card in his hand. "'_Paranormal Detective_.'" He stopped pacing the drawing room, raised a large bushy eyebrow and wrinkled his enormous moustache distastefully. "It's my misfortune to have heard of your father before: a mad tabloid psychic, who pulled an elaborate insurance scam a few years ago, that about right?" he asked, looking irritated. "My cousin, Douglas Thickley, dealt with his case. Said it was a great waste of time and money. And it's an even greater shame that his daughter should carry on his business."

Nox bristled in anger and clenched her fists until her knuckles grew white. There was an air of self-proclaimed importance about this officer which was already beginning to grind on her nerves. George, who was leaning against the arm of her chair, looked equally unimpressed by the tall uniformed man before them. The officer had arrived roughly an hour after the discovery of Ternwip's body and with a surprising number of police units. She had heard from a frantic Martha that the officer had previously been hired as the private investigator in charge of Catherine's case, before the Lord and Lady of Rosewood Estate had replaced him.

"Thickley, eh?" George was saying. "Funny how some folk match their names." He narrowed his eyes at the officer. "You a _Thick-_ley too, officer?" he asked with such a bitter sweet tone that Nox had to marvel at his nerve.

"That's _Officer - Argos - Thickley_." The man fixed his deep set eyes on George and glowered. There wasn't a glimmer of amusement on his long face. In fact it looked like the officer hadn't cracked a smile in over forty years. "You're not in a position to make jibes, Mr Weasley. You say you are working in conjunction with Miss Wolfe, is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right." George folded his arms and stared the officer directly in the eye, looking obstinate. Despite the uniformed man having a good foot on him, George, with his squared, broad shoulders and his fiery eyes, looked far more intimidating. "That a problem?"

Thickley pursed his lips and wrinkled his large grey moustache again. "You say you came here after a summoning from Audra Beckinsale?" He turned to look round at a small pale figure who was leaning over her knees and staring hard at the elaborate patterns on the expensive Persian rug beneath them. "Miss Beckinsale, can you support this claim?"

Audra raised her sunken eyes to George and Nox, her long blonde hair hanging limply around her gaunt face. Nox felt her toes curl in her anxiety. If Audra told the Police that she hadn't hired them, they would instantly become suspect in both Lucie and Ternwip's deaths. Nox caught Audra's gaze and tried to plead as hard as she could with her eyes.

Officer Thickley caught the exchange and cleared his throat noisily, looking increasingly more irritated. "Miss Beckinsale, did you or did you _not_ invite these two into your house? If there is something you wish to inform me of, now's the time to do it."

Audra turned her gaze back to the officer, her expression suddenly sharp and cold. "Of course I did," she snapped icily. "Get on with your purported investigating, Thickley, so that they might get on with theirs. Perhaps they shall succeed where you have failed."

Thickley didn't reply, but there was a look of fury mixed with embarrassment on his face, which was now turning a pleasant shade of purple. He pointed one thick finger at George and Nox, and said fiercely, "Unfortunately I can't stop you from carrying out whatever crazy, hokey, magical nonsense your business is into, but I _can_ order you not to leave the Estate grounds under any circumstances. Not until this stupid beast, whatever it is, can be caught." And with that, Thickley stormed out of the Drawing Room, his massive shoulders barely managing to squeeze through the doorframe as he left.

Silence settled over the room for a minute then George got up and walked to where Audra sat stiffly in her seat. "Why did you lie for us, then?" he asked her in a low voice.

"What?" asked Nox, looking perplexed. "But Audra told the truth."

"No I didn't," said Audra coldly and for the first time Nox noticed how different she looked from the first day they had met on the doorstep of Weasley Manor. "I hadn't seen either of you until last night." She scowled at them both, her shadowed, green eyes flashing with surprising malice. "You told me you killed it," she hissed. "Obviously you were mistaken."

George seemed to study Audra closely for a moment, then turned away to snatch Nox by the hand and began dragging her towards the door. "Come on boss!" he said, chirpily. "Looks like we've really got our work cut out for us."

While George looked and sounded like his cheerful old self, Nox could practically see the tension in his tightened jaw and in the way he held her hand so firmly. This observation was quickly forgotten, however, when Nox became suddenly aware that their detective trio was missing a third, and she blurted out, "Where's Fred?"

**oOo**

The fog was still thick around the apple orchards, but occasionally Fred could see the flash of red and blue lights through the cloud, like those belonging to the Muggle law enforcers he'd seen around London a few times.

Fred had been meandering around the Estate grounds for what felt like hours, but no matter which way he turned, he wound right back at the same spot. He faced the ancient apple tree and stared groggily.

"Alright," he said at last to the tree's broad trunk. "What's it you want then?"

Nothing happened. Of course, Fred didn't exactly know what to expect from conversing with a tree, but he was now completely certain that five years of being dead and buried had driven him totally barmy.

He sucked his tooth and scuffed the ground with his shoe, watching impatiently as it disappeared a few inches through the earth then reappeared again. It had taken some time getting used to the absence of things he had always taken for granted. Heck, he was still getting used to it even now. It was the little things that always got him. He scuffed the earth again.

Just then, Fred heard the rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs in the near distance.

"Nox?" he called brightly. "I've been looking for you for ages, where'd you go?" It was a lie, of course; Fred hadn't cast Nox a single thought in the hours since he had left her, but he decided to humour his new detective anyway.

Nobody answered.

Fred sighed and drifted over to sit beneath the huge apple tree, tossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes, but it wasn't long before he heard the rustle of leaves again, this time followed by a most peculiar sound: _Shakim, shakim._ He frowned and listened carefully. It had sounded like swords clashing in the distance – _shakim, shakim –_ only more rhythmic. The blue and red Police lights were receding in the distance – _shakim, shakim._ Fred cracked an eye open and tried to match a picture to the familiar sound – _shakim._

_Shakim_

_SHAKIM_

"Aha!" Fred cried, as though he'd hit upon a great epiphany, and sat bolt upright. "Shears!" Just as he spoke the word did an enormous pair of gardening shears, like those belonging to a giant, emerge from the trunk of the tree.

Fred ducked seconds before the razor sharp blades sliced through his head (though it occurred to him the damage would have been non-existent all the same). He spun around just as a pair of ladders clattered down from the apple tree, and a high-pitched scream echoed through the orchards. A few drops of blood spattered the grass around him.

"Wha-?" Fred's mouth worked, utterly baffled. "Blimey, what in Snape's slacks was that?" he exclaimed with mild indignation, staring wide-eyed at the ladders now lying solidly along the blood-spattered grass. He got to his feet and listened for the shears again, but there was neither sight nor sound of the peculiar apparition.

Frowning, Fred began to float away from the tree and as he did, the fog began to lift like a heavy curtain from a theatre stage, revealing Rosewood Estate in full colour. He quirked an eyebrow as he saw his twin and detective crossing the grass towards him.

Nox was burying her face in her hands and groaning. "How are we to explain a werewolf to the Police? I really hope Thickley's nothing like his cousin; he'll be difficult to shake off if he is."

"Don't worry about old 'tache," said George merrily. "A good Confundus Charm will sort him out."

"A what? Oh, wait, never mind," said Nox, seemingly wanting to avoid whatever explanation George might have for her. "Why didn't you tell me it wasn't Audra who called us up here?"

"You wouldn't have believed us if we had," answered Fred dismissively, appearing before her so suddenly that she let out a little cry of surprise. "And you won't believe what just happened to me now."

"Ah, good, there you are," said George happily. "Thought you might have crossed over or something."

Fred shook his head, mirroring his twin's grin. "As if. Did you find anything?"

"Well I solved the mystery of the rabbit heads. All of them have been speared on the rose bushes near the moor." George grinned uneasily, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm beginning to agree with Nox – this place is a nuthouse."

"Fred," said Nox, interrupting hurriedly. "Ternwip's dead."

Fred started at the unexpected news. "She is?"

"Our werewolf got her last night," said George, his smile faltering. "Just out here too. It must have followed us back."

Nox was running her fingers through her hair in frustration. "But it doesn't make sense!" she said. "Why would Ternwip go outside when she explicitly ordered everyone to stay indoors?"

"Look, maybe I can shed a bit of light on things," said Fred and began to detail the strange apparition by the old apple tree.

George looked highly amused after his bit of storytelling. "You really love that tree, don't you?"

Nox raised an eyebrow, looking very sceptic. "Are you sure you didn't fall asleep?"

Fred glowered at them. "I didn't fall asleep! Besides, ghosts can't dream, Nut-head."

Nox continued to look doubtful. "I know what I saw the other night at the window wasn't exactly normal, but a magical tree? Giant gardening shears?" She shook her head. "It's the stuff of Grimms' fairytales and make-believe, Fred."

"Nox, you're talking to a ghost. You shot a _werewolf_ last night!"

"Dunno know, mate," George was saying, staring at the apple tree with his chin in his hand, "still looks like a common old apple tree to me."

A terrible crunching sound, like the splitting of a tree trunk, crackled around the orchards and a small, red object began hurtling towards them.

"Head's up!" Fred hollered as the apple sailed through the air, bypassing his ghostly form to bop George painfully on the head. He swore and rubbed the already rising lump, while Fred pointed and guffawed riotously.

Nox turned to look at the ancient tree. It shivered and creaked portentously, as though trying to converse with her, while a few ripe, red apples dropped from its branches. Frowning, Nox bent over to pick up the apple guilty of attacking George.

"Well…that could have been anything," Nox stuttered, staring wide-eyed at the apple in her hand. "A gust of wind…a neighbourhood kid…a …cat."

"Yeah, you're probably right," said Fred in a mocking tone and sneered at her. "It was a cat that tried to slice my head off with a pair of gardening shears."

"Alright, I believe you," said George grudgingly. "So what's your big ugly tree-friend saying, do you think? Don't suppose it's 'Chop me up for firewood', eh?" he asked bitterly, trying to push the tender lump on his forehead down.

"Not exactly," said Nox, looking pale, and handed George the apple which had launched itself at his head. "Here, have a look at this."

Fred and George gathered around her outstretched hand, and peered closely at the apple. Sure enough, there was writing scrawled in the skin of the ruby red fruit, and two interlocking crescent moons. As they read, the words carved there faded and changed:

'_My love is like a red, red rose  
That's newly sprung in June  
My love is like the melody  
That's sweetly played in tune._

_As fair art thou, my [Jonathan],  
So deep in love am I :  
And I will love thee still, my dear,  
Till a' the seas gang dry._

_And fare thee weel, my only love,  
And fare thee weel a while!  
And I will come again, my John,  
Thou' it were ten thousand mile.'_

Fred and George glanced at each other, both sets of eyebrows millimetres from touching their hairlines.

George cleared his throat and said in a deeply respectful tone, "Well, well - that certainly was -"

"Soppy," finished Fred, who folded his arms firmly across his chest, a disgusted look across his face. "Downright wet. Mum would've loved it. Here, George, better write that one down. It'll gain us points next Mother's Day – Percy'll be livid."

"You could show a bit more respect. This was written by a very famous poet," said Nox and sniffed with an air of exaggerated importance.

Fred glanced at her askance. "Was he Scottish?"

Nox turned a little pink with civic pride. "Yes, he was."

"Figures," said Fred and grinned at George who buckled with laughter.

"Shut up," snapped Nox, pulling the apple away from under his nose to inspect it herself with her magnifying glass.

"Do you really need that thing?" asked Fred, peering over her shoulder.

"It's a comfort, more than anything," she replied honestly, examining the writing further. "It was my dad's, you see. Right, let's see here," she began to read out loud, "'And I will come again… though it were ten thousand miles,' hmm. Jonathan…Jonathan. This could be good," Nox said after a moment, fixedly.

Fred and George looked at her in puzzlement, and said together, "_Good?_"

"Maybe it's a culture difference or something, but good isn't quite the word I'd use to describe the situation," remarked Fred dryly.

"No, it is!" Nox assured him, a sparkle in her eye. "It's very good in fact! I've been looking for a link and I think you pair just stumbled across one."

"Stumble?" George sniffed at her, feigning outrage. "We never stumble!"

"We might topple headlong into genius," argued Fred, "but we do so with advanced knowledge and certified style."

Nox waved them off and continued as though never having been interrupted in the first place. "I'd wager our John the werewolf had a fling with little Catherine before she up and disappeared. See: JT and CB – John and Catherine. And here," she pointed at the crescent moons that were now carving themselves all around the red apple skin. "I've definitely seen this before! When I was running out to meet you last night I slipped and fell beside one of those gargoyle soldiers, and it was there: the initials, the crescent moons, everything!"

"That'd be those big feet again. Bloomin' hazard, they are," said Fred to his twin, who nodded sombrely, then started himself and clicked his fingers as though having just remembered something.

"I've seen it too!" cried George. "Out on the moor in the ruins, where I met old Wolfy. It was carved on a piece of bark."

"From the tree," answered Fred and grinned smugly. "Told you it was special."

Nox pocketed the apple and frowned. "I think it's time we do some more questioning."

**oOo**

Perhaps it was the grey, sombre light from the window, but the kitchen had lost all its friendliness and welcoming nature. The first day he had walked into the room, George had been instantly reminded of the Burrow. But now it felt dreary and dank. There was no music playing and the air reeked of rotting apples. Martha was chopping up onions half-heartedly; her eyes were still red and swollen. Ben Weatherby sat in his armchair, puffing away on his pipe and scratching behind his spaniel's ears – the dog looked as though it was getting a bald spot from all the petting, but it didn't seem to mind and sat its loyal head on its master's lap.

"Martha," said Nox softly, standing by the doorway. "I'm sorry, but we need to talk to you. Both of you."

Ben didn't answer her. He was too busy staring into some far off distance, but Martha turned towards George and Nox with a cheery disposition.

She wiped at her teary eyes and smiled. "Silly onions, getting me all teary. How can I help you, dears?"

"I want you to tell us about Ternwip's son," Nox began, "and his relationship with Catherine."

Ben pulled his pipe away and turned to gape at her, while Martha simply stood, looking stunned. They weren't the only two who looked surprised. Fred and George were gawking at her.

"Ternwip's _son?_" George muttered. "You might've mentioned that theory."

"Ternwip was the first into the hall last night," Nox began to explain, "it was late, but the hem of her dress was muddy and her fingers were bloody. At the time I didn't think much of it. I thought the blood was Lucie's, but Ternwip wouldn't go near her body." She stared Martha hard in the eye, her gaze never wavering for a minute. "Somebody speared those rabbit heads on the rose bushes. Was it Ternwip?"

Martha was turning paler by the second. "W-why would I know a thing like that?"

"Come on, Martha," said George lightly, catching onto his partner's train of thought. "Cough up. You know about the werewolf, right?" He glanced at Ben over his shoulder. "Bet you both do."

Ben nodded silently then puffed on his pipe and returned to staring into the empty fire. Martha leaned heavily against the worktop and cleared her throat. "We all did…" She paused, and then added regretfully, "But not Lucie. She was the only one who didn't know."

"So Ternwip tried to set up George in order to stop us from getting too close to her son," said Nox decidedly. "And when we went out after the werewolf, she must have followed in the hopes she could stop us. That's why she didn't answer the door to us last night."

"One Weasley on a silver platter, eh?" asked George, a shadow crossing his freckled face. "Got the wrong person though, didn't she?"

Martha hid her face from him, looking miserable and heartbroken.

Nox hooked her thumbs behind her braces and asked, "What exactly happened between John and Catherine?"

"John didn't kill Catherine!" the cook snapped sharply. "He couldn't…he wouldn't, not her. Not even in that foul form."

"Then what _did_ happen to her?" George pressed, feeling increasingly agitated.

A gunshot suddenly rang out across the estate grounds. Instantly, pandemonium ensued as shrieks and shouts from outside mingled with the footsteps as everyone in the kitchen scrambled out the little doorway leading out to the garden. George held Nox firmly behind him, Fred swore crossly, Martha gave a tiny cry, and the spaniel barked furiously. Then the apple tree began to move. Its tall branches swung apart then moved together again, as though it were writhing in pain from the bullet which had buried itself deep in the body of its trunk.

Audra's eyes were wide as she looked down the barrel of the shotgun, the very same Nox had held the night before, and her face was pale with rage, though her arms were trembling. The bullet had missed John's head by an inch, but he did not seem to care as he lay slumped by the foot of the tree. He was bleeding from a wound; an old wound received from the same gun only last night. He stared at Audra, compassion in his eyes.

On instinct, George reached for his wand, only to find his pocket empty, and he remembered its sad fate during his duel with the werewolf.

"Audra," Martha stuttered, terrified, and the young girl spun around towards them. Audra looked like a wild ghost, so pale even in the afternoon light.

"I am only finishing an affair that should have been dealt with long ago," she hissed and raised the barrels again. "It is his fault! All of it! All of it is his doing!" she shouted in a passionate frenzy. "It never would have happened if it weren't for him!"

John didn't say a word, only lay there gazing at her sadly.

George felt Nox push his arm away as she stepped closer to the trembling girl. "You did it," she said, slowly and deliberately. "You killed her. She's buried under the tree, isn't she?"

Audra gave a little squeak of terror and stopped shaking. Nox continued carefully. "The two of you used to tend the trees here? The ladders…" She produced the apple from her pocket and reached it out towards the small girl. "Every meal here is cooked with the apples from this tree; the tree where you buried your sister."

Audra turned her gaunt, shadowed face towards them. She looked sicker than ever. Nevertheless, she gave everyone a grim smile. "The apples turned red after I buried her here. I got sick, but no doctor could tell me why." Her eyes darkened. "But I knew why."

Nox looked sympathetic. "A Grimms' story after all."

Fred turned to his twin in shock. "Then that wasn't Catherine at our door. It was this bloody…"

"…The tree, yeah," George muttered, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Catherine's death was treacherous, so her blood is poisoning the tree here. It must have used her memories and blood to send a doppelganger to our door."

Nox nodded sadly and repeated the words scrawled on the apple, "_And I will come again, my John, Thou' it were ten thousand mile'_."

"That can't be!" said Martha from behind him, who was clutching Ben tightly. "It's dreadful nonsense!"

"It's not," said Audra coldly. "Catherine confided in me about him," she said, pointing at John, "about what he was. I couldn't let her be with such a …_thing. _Not with our family's lineage, our pure blood. I told her to climb up the ladders. I told her to go up into the highest branches, where the ripest apples were." She smiled wryly. "Catherine always did as I pleased. And then I picked up the sheers and cut. It was so easy." Her knees began to buckle and angry tears streamed down her white cheeks.

"And Ternwip knew," Nox ventured a guess. "You blackmailed her, threatened to reveal what John really was to the world, right?"

A flicker of rage flashed in Audra's eye and she bellowed furiously, "He's a monster!" The gun was up; Fred and George were diving forwards and a second shot split the sky, just as a light rain began to fall.

**oOo**

Fred, George and Nox stood on the old, rickety Dartmoor platform, awaiting their train for the long journey back to London. They looked tired and fatigued from the long, eventful stay in Rosewood Estate. It seemed like an eternity since they had first stepped off the train into this wild, Devonshire country.

"So Thickley is taking care of things from here on?" asked Nox as she wiped her tired eyes, shifting her enormous pack (which seemed to have gained a couple of pounds since the last time she had carried it).

"Naturally." George beamed at her, cockily. "As well he thinks, anyway. We'll have some friends from the Ministry sort out the werewolf business. Couple of days and as far as everyone here will be concerned, that werewolf was just an escaped panther from the zoo."

Nox gawked. "You are kidding me, right? No one will buy that cock and bull story."

"What, haven't you heard of mysterious panther sightings in the country before?" said Fred. "What do you think those _really_ are, Nutty?

The look on her face faltered and she didn't argue with them after that. After a while she asked, "But what about Audra? What will happen to her? Her illness, I mean – do you think it will kill her?"

George shook his head gravely. "Her sickness is in her mind, not in her body. There's nothing wrong with her body."

"Physically, maybe," Fred commented dryly, rolling his eyes, "but there are a few screws loose upstairs alright. I think we stopped her soul from splitting just in time. If Audra had shot John, that would've been the end of her."

"I'm not sure I believe in souls," said Nox thoughtfully. "Even if I did, I don't see how we could have rescued Audra's soul. She murdered her twin - that's pretty unforgivable."

"But John forgave her," said George, wagging a finger. "Sure, her heart'll be marked and she'll likely live a half-life, but her soul will remain whole."

Nox chewed her lip and furrowed her brow. "It doesn't feel much like a happy ending. I mean what have we solved? We unearthed the murder of a sister and saved a soul that didn't really deserve to be rescued in the first place. It doesn't feel right."

"What were you expecting?" Fred chuckled. "A song and dance number?"

George plonked a hand on her head and ruffled her dark, already messy, hair. "We achieved what we set out to do, Noxy - we found Catherine and saved a tree as a bonus! And Audra'll pay a price alright. The burden of taking any life, not just your flesh and blood's, is a heavy weight to carry for the rest of your life."

Fred slung his arm around her neck and added, "And if you think rescuing a soul from being torn apart is some small feat then think again. She'd have spent the rest of eternity walking the earth in limbo with her eyes sewn shut, or so the rumours go," he told her and began walking the platform with his eyes closed and his arms held out front like a zombie.

George snapped his fingers in Nox's face. "But if you really want a big musical number, I can pop a Dancing Dandy in Hermione's tea when we get back." He smiled wickedly. "How's about that?"

"That cheer you up, Nutty?" asked Fred.

"No, of course not!" cried Nox in indignation, and then paused as her curiosity niggled away at her. "Well...what does a Dancing Dandy do, exactly?"

The twins attempted another unsuccessful high-five over her head, and shouted cheerfully, "That a girl!"

**oOo**

The heavy rain spattered against the window of the train as it trundled into central London. George peered out through the grimy glass, straining to see through the grey sheets of rain; anything to take his mind off the events of the past week.

'_First case…'_ He pulled what looked to be an old piece of glass from his pocket, its sharp edges long since worn away, rendering it harmless, or so it would seem. '_First Vice… First soul.' _

He turned the object around in his hand for a while, inspecting it carefully. It had fallen like a tear drop from Audra's eye the moment she had fired the shotgun safely into the air, away from John. Fred had caught it. Neither twin was exactly sure what it meant, but he had the feeling they would know on their return to Weasley Manor.

George pulled out a pack of playing cards from the pocket of his bottle-green tailed coat and began absentmindedly shuffling the deck in his hands. Fred and Nox sat across from him, snoozing lightly. Nox was leaning her head against the glass where it occasionally bumped with a small _thup_ every time the train gave an unexpected pitch. Fred, meanwhile, was sprawled across two seats and leaning his head against her side, snoring quietly.

"Jabbering and jam!" the card at the top of his deck suddenly exclaimed, twitching and twittering in agitation. George glanced down to see the Queen of Hearts shaking her head. Her red lips were pursed and her brow was puckered. "Keep your eyes on them, young man, and mark my word; love is wasted on such a hand," she said tartly, wrinkling her nose and sniffing in disgust.

The King of Spades behind her jerked up and nodded solemnly. "She's right you know, son." The King grunted and added, "_For once._"

George glanced back to the sleeping pair, a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The cards at the top of the deck were now bickering loudly.

"This can only spell trouble," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N: **Ye gods, I really hope you enjoyed that because it was a nightmare to write! XD Why on earth did I take up mystery?? I'm not smart enough to write a mystery! I'm a _fantasy_ writer. Balls! Oh well, please review, thanks! Oh, and Luna's in the next chapter folks xx


	8. The Writing on the Wall

**A/N:** Wow, seriously, the reviews recently have been blowing me away. Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed! Hell, thank you so much for reading in the first place XD

Chapters 1 - 5 have been Beta Read by **BloodRayne**. The character of the Irishman Caithion belongs to **Caith** (who helped me a lot with this chapter - love to her!). I'm only going to say one thing about him: yes, yes he technically _is _a canon character. Hehehe...

You know, upon writing this chapter Lee Jordan has become one of my very favourite HP characters. I've always loved him and I thought he was fab in the movies. I hope that actor returns for Deathly Hallows. GO LEE! He's a babe - _shwing!_

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

The Writing on the Wall

**oOo**

Weasley Manor was an architectural wonder, even by wizarding standards. In its grand old four hundred plus years, the curious structure had undergone several rebuilds and internal magical expansions, though by whom no one was entirely certain. The only surviving records of the building's inhabitants detailed one Sir Hector Archimedes Oddness's brief stay in the summer of 1749.

Little was known about the purpose for which or indeed whom the impressive manor had been built. The Jacobean era, during the seventeenth century – a period in history renowned for being immersed in its witch-hunts and Ministry dealings with the Great Centaur Uprising – saw both Weasley Manor and its neighbour, the Angel Hotel, working in conjunction as coaching inns and safe houses for the travelling witch or wizard.

So efficiently had the newly titled Weasley Manor been hidden by its many magical charms and protection spells that it had fallen entirely out of Ministry records around the late nineteenth century. It may well have gone undiscovered for a further hundred years or more, if it hadn't been for the Weasley twins, Fred and George, who had quite literally stumbled upon it.

This of course meant little to Nox Wolfe, who was busy unpacking box after box into her new apartment at the junction of High Street, Islington, and Pentonville Road. She cast the adjoining Angel Hotel an admiring glance and thought it a great shame that the poor old building, after years of playing host to London's elite social classes and splendiferous balls, was now the location of an Abbey National bank. Her brief distraction caused her to miss her footing on the kerb and she stumbled headlong into a box of books sitting on the pavement by the moving van.

"You really love your books, don't you?" a voice above her teased mercilessly.

Wincing, Nox sat up and rubbed her bruised nose, ignoring George's jibe. "I hate my feet," she muttered, twitching her nose. "It's a bloody wonder I haven't broken something yet."

"What a cheek!" exclaimed Fred suddenly and poked his head out the back of the moving van. "Just listen to that George. Tempting Fate when she's moving in with us!"

George shook his head and sighed sadly. "Daft Muggle. We'll be visiting you at St. Mungos yet."

"Dear, dear Noxy… How we knew and loved her well." Fred clutched his chest with one hand, while his other reached up to his forehead in a melodramatic gesture.

"Please stop planning my funeral speech," Nox muttered, but not without a wry smile, and heaved a heavy box of books into her arms. "Fred, can't you carry something?" she asked, eyeing the ghost who was peering curiously into her box.

"What do you think I'm made of exactly? _One_ book's far too heavy for me to carry, let alone a dozen," Fred replied plainly, "all those words, and people, and places, and buildings – how'd you expect a ghost to carry all that?"

Nox sighed, wearily. "Now I know I'm spending too much time with you, because that actually made a bit of sense." Fred grinned triumphantly. "So, when do you want me to call my assistant?" she asked the twins as they made their way back indoors. "Actually, strike that. A more befitting question would be how exactly do you plan on explaining this wonderland rabbit hole to him?"

"Simple," said George.

"You don't," answered Fred. "I've taken the liberty of arranging a secretary for you: Diggle's son, Didymus. He's a cheerful old bungler just like his dad, so the two of you should get along fine."

However, Nox was already shaking her head. "No thanks, I've already got my own assistant."

"Not a chance, Nutty," Fred refused. "It's bad enough having one troublesome Muggle in the house. Even we'd be hard pressed to keep two."

"Look, I still don't know what all this business about you and Muggles is, but my assistant has been with the business since my dad started it up," Nox protested.

George sniffed sardonically. "Yes and your business has been going down a treat for so many years." He plonked a box full of papers and picture frames down on the hall cabinet and rested his hands on his waist. "You haven't even signed our contract yet and until you do that we can't very well let you and your Muggle mates tear about the place."

"That's our privilege only," said Fred and nodded his silvery head in solemn agreement.

Nox slid her clear grey eyes from one twin to the other. It was a funny thing to see the twins attempt a look that was so profoundly intense, but if they thought they could outwit her so easily they had another thing coming. Her face broke out into a broad, toothy grin – one that was certainly tantamount to surname. "All right, if that's the way you want to play, fine." She picked up her box again and spun back to the door. "You either have me and my business on my terms, or you don't. Have it whichever way you like. After all, it certainly seems like you need me far more than I need you if this curse of yours is anything to go by."

Fred darted in front of her, blocking the doorway. "That's blackmail!" he cried, looking shocked.

Nox nodded candidly. "Yes it is." The corner of her mouth lifted in a cynical smile. "But I'm sure two upstanding citizens of London such as yourselves would never stoop to that level. I suppose I must be the only one lacking morals under this roof."

George eyed Fred from behind her, muttering sullenly, "She's onto us, mate."

"All right you withering, wolfy, Muggle," Fred began and waved her further back into the hall.,"you win for now, but this battle of wits isn't over!"

"Go and collect your secretary and give us a ring when you do," George instructed her. "You won't be able to lead him back here, so we'll come get you."

"Okay, what's your number?" Nox asked.

"Number?" Fred queried, quirking his eyebrows at his twin, questioningly.

"She means one of those numeric codes you have to dial into the thing-a-ma-bob," George explained, "then you talk into the retriever at the end of the curly what-cha-ma-doo."

"Oh, right, course," Fred said, as though recalling a distant classmate from school. "Bloody hell, do those Muggles like to complicate things. All right, what's our number then?"

George whipped a brightly coloured quill and a blank piece of parchment out of a secret compartment in the cabinet and quickly scribbled down the series of digits. "Meet us in Camden Passage Market," he said, passing the parchment to Nox.

"And remember, Noxy," Fred added in a stern tone, "no magical mumblings and casual werewolf banter."

Nox raised herself up, took the parchment and dryly replied, "As if I would."

**oOo**

Nox had known Caithion Sidhe for almost her entire life – or at least it certainly felt like that. Try as she might, she had never been able to pinpoint the moment the stick thin, chain-smoking Irishman had slipped into her life. He had been one of her father's few friends (certainly the only friend of her father's that Nox knew personally), and had worked in the paranormal business for years, or so he claimed. But despite all his oddities and abject secretiveness, if there was one person Nox trusted implicitly in the world it was Caithion Sidhe.

And he was laughing at her.

"A Jammy Dodger?" A low, silky chuckle escaped the tall man's lips as he leaned against the red telephone box. "I'd thought we had taught you not to take sweets from strangers."

Nox moaned and raised her hands in a pleading manner. "Please, no more mocking at my expense. I've had about as much as I can handle over the past week."

The Irishman went silent for a moment, inhaling deeply on the stub of his cigarette. "Sounds a bit too good to be true, my dear," he replied finally, tossing the stub away.

"Maybe… Perhaps… But what other choice do I have? At this rate Dad's business is going to get flushed down the bog and I can't very well keep paying you a tenner a week. The debt he left behind is draining my bank account, I just can't go on like this anymore." Nox rubbed her tired eyes and stretched her stiff neck. "It's either this or the streets. We have to move soon or the bleeding accountants will start knocking down our door again. I think Fred and Geor…er, _Mr Weasley_ is the only option we have left. Besides that, I've already filed the first investigation."

"Oh?" Caithion asked, a look of intense interest in his strange-coloured eyes. "What was the case?"

Nox lowered her voice, a smile spreading across her face. "One word." She raised her index finger in front of his eyes. "Beckinsale."

Caithion appeared genuinely impressed by the mere mentioning of the famed Beckinsale family name. "That's certainly no mean feat. I read about it in _The Times_, but your name wasn't mentioned." His smile darkened. "Whoever would have thought such grim deeds were capable of lovely little Audra."

"Yes, it was an, erm, interesting case," she said, a bit uncomfortably, and vaguely wondered how she might later approach the topic of the werewolf and the strange, conscious, apple tree, if at all.

"I suppose I can hardly say no," said Caithion at length and began to draw another cigarette from his twenty-pack of Marlboro Reds. "Whereabouts is this Weasley Manor?"

Nox slipped her hands into the pockets of her long coat and turned to walk. "For that I'm afraid we'll need a guide."

**oOo**

Fred and George stood waiting impatiently on the busy cobbled walkway of Camden Passage Market. The narrow street was heaving with tourists and shoppers, parading in, out, and around the antique stores and book stalls.

"Why'd we make it a Saturday?" Fred mumbled, dodging the hundreds of shoppers filing down the street and swearing furiously every time one stepped through him. "We should've made it a day where the Muggles of London weren't likely to converge and stomp me flat into the bloody pavement."

George didn't answer. He had just glimpsed Nox through the crowds, accompanied by the strangest Muggle he had ever seen. This man's head was bobbing at least a foot above the jostling crowd, his long black hair tied in a barely-contained ponytail. His skin was very pale, almost white; a dramatic contrast against his entirely black ensemble. Behind steel square spectacles, his narrow eyes were a bright purple. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Bloody hell," George heard Fred whisper. "Is that Snape's long lost fashion consultant?"

"Any relation, do you think?" George asked him.

"Nah, I doubt it," Fred replied, scratching his head in wonder. "His hair doesn't look like it's been dipped in a vat of grease."

Nox caught sight of them and raised her hand in a friendly greeting. Fred grinned; the look on his brother's face did not escape George's notice. He turned and forced a smile at the peculiar looking Muggle.

"I see you decided to dress more inconspicuously for the city folk," said Nox, taking in George's t-shirt and jeans with arched eyebrows. "Pity. Believe it or not, I miss the jacket. And the hat."

"I'm incognito," George replied happily, despite never taking his eyes from the tall man shadowing her. At that moment, the Irishman turned his unnatural gaze onto George. A single ebony eyebrow was rising higher and higher in what he could only surmise was sheer repulsion at the sight of him.

"And you must be Mr. Weasley, correct?" the man enquired, but by the tone of his voice it sounded more like a statement than a question. He tapped some ash to the pavement.

George exchanged a fleeting look with Fred. The look on his twin's face mirrored his own feelings: they did not trust this new intruder.

"That would be me," said George with a bright smile, but it wasn't the same smile he had given Nox on the first day they had met; this was a hesitant smile, a testing smile. Something about this newcomer told George that he wasn't as malleable as their detective.

The Irishman took a drag, nodding. "Caithion Sidhe," he said and offered a pale hand. "Miss Wolfe's assistant."

George took it, giving it a firm shake. "Lovely to meet you," he said, regaining some of his composure. "Right, let's get going then. It's not too far, just across the road here."

As they began to walk, George suddenly caught sight of a large, oblong, object tucked underneath Caithion's arm. It was covered in a heavy white drape, but it was roughly the same size and shape of a standing mirror. By the sheer size of the thing, George was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner, but then he supposed he had been a bit distracted by a larger, stranger, entity.

"Does this bloke think he's moving in or what?" Fred muttered in his ear, having noticed the mirror himself.

"You needn't worry," said Caithion, suddenly. "I'm not a new tenant. This is merely for decoration," he stated and motioned with one graceful movement of his head to the mirror he was carrying.

Fred looked startled. "Did he answer me?"

"Don't be a dolt, course he didn't," George whispered back, but it didn't settle the uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

George lead their rag-tag group back along the street and across the busy road to the gates of Weasley Manor, half expecting their strange new secretary to enquire after why Nox couldn't have shown him the way herself, considering the short five minute walk. Thankfully, the Irishman's mouth was too preoccupied with the cigarette he was currently puffing on.

George opened the door and, stepping back, extended his arm to the vastness of Weasley Manor's hall. Caithion arched an eyebrow at him, then swept gracefully across the threshold as though the house was his own. George could see Fred glowering at the man as he crossed the room, inspecting everything with a critical eye, running a long finger across the cabinet and peering at the grandfather clock through his saffron tinted spectacles.

"Interesting décor," he said at last, after a very long and extraordinarily uncomfortable silence, "but the floral decked armchairs are a tad last millennium, don't you think?"

Despite their vibrant colour, the Irishman's eyes were cold and empty, and made George feel like he had been shot through the heart by an icicle. At this point, Fred had grown so impatient that he'd scattered a couple of Nosebleed Nougats on the floor in the hopes that the Irishman would scarf them down. Nox quickly nudged them under the cabinet with her foot then paused to look at the twins, curiously.

"Floral armchairs?" she repeated with a frown. "There aren't any floral armchairs in he-" Nox had to mumble the last part through George's hand which was clamped tightly over her mouth. He roared with laughter and ruffled her hair, feigning play as the Irishman gave them a long scrutinising look.

"Don't mind her, she's getting blind in her old age, aren't you Nox?" He poked her sharply in the ribs and she nodded her head while glaring at him out of the corner of her eye. "You go on upstairs. The office is open, you'll find it on your right hand side," George told the Irishman, waving him on with his hand. "We'll be up in a jiff – Ah! And skip the middle step, it's a bit dodgy."

Caithion's slanted eyes seemed to study him very carefully for a moment, but nevertheless he did as instructed and travelled the stairs to the first floor. When he was out of sight, Nox pulled out of George's arms and turned on him.

"What on earth was that about?" she asked, hotly.

"You dolt!" said Fred and made to scuff her across the head. "Not everyone can see this place for what it really is, Nox. You came here out of your own nosiness, so you see everything -"

"...the doors, the garden, the dome…" George counted them off on his fingers.

"…the whole shebang!" Fred finished. "Your secretary was _lead_ here, so all he sees is a couple of dusty armchairs, the clock and old Dumbledore," he said, pointing his finger at the portrait of the old man who appeared to be snoozing in his silver frame.

Nox did a double take of the painting, then jumped with a sudden realisation. "Is he _sleeping_?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "I don't remember him sleeping before…"

"Course he's sleeping," said Fred. "Dumbledore's a busy bloke."

"He likes to visit us in the summer time," said George. "Rest of the year you'll probably find him in Hogwarts or with Harry."

Her shoulders slumped and she pulled a hand over her eyes. "You pair have mastered the art of answering my questions with more riddles."

"One does try," said George in an affected tone.

Together they ascended the large staircase, careful to avoid the middle step, and entered the door on the first floor into the office. Caithion appeared to have located his work space, tucked away at the very back of the expansive room, and was already setting up the standing mirror. He turned and straightened his back upon their entering.

"It's certainly an improvement on your previous hovel, Nox, my dear," Caithion said, smoothly, taking in the view of Islington below.

"Hmm, there are hardly any rats here," said Nox nodding in agreement and cast Fred and George a sideways glance. Fred pulled a rude gesture in reply, which she subsequently ignored.

"That's an interesting antique," George commented on the partially covered standing mirror which had been propped near the window. Where the drape had fallen away, the topmost curve of the mirror's frame could be seen: white silver and covered in thousands of glittering scales which flashed a rainbow of colours in the light. "Looks pretty old," George muttered, and reached out to pull the remaining drape away when Caithion grabbed his wrist.

"I'd rather you didn't touch it," he said in a tone that George took to mean he would be meat if he did. Caithion dropped his rest and moved towards his desk, eyes taking in everything and nothing at once. "I don't know how you're used to working, Weasley, but I start at seven a.m. and finish at five on the dot, unless a particular case calls for extra attention," the words rolled off his tongue like sand siphoned from a tap. "I take my breaks on a Sunday morning and a Monday afternoon; _no exceptions_. I think you'll find me a hard, diligent and serious worker." He raised a newly lit cigarette to his lips, took a long draw, then added as a lazy afterthought, "I hope you don't mind me smoking."

George coughed and wheezed on the coiling smoke. "Not at all," he gagged and added mentally, '_you git.'_

Behind him, George heard Nox attempt to stifle a snigger and fail.

"Good." Caithion's eyes sparked with something akin to amusement. "I'll start work tomorrow: seven o'clock, sharp." He slid past George, taking long lithesome strides towards the door.

"You're leaving already?" Nox asked in surprise.

Caithion paused at the door to look at her askance. "I've work that needs seen to. You needn't show me the way out," he said, raising a hand when George and Nox moved to follow him. "I know my way."

The twins stared at the door through which the strange Irishman had exited until they heard the click of the front door closing downstairs. Instantly, in one fleeting, synchronised movement, they turned back towards the mirror, rubbing their hands and licking their chops like two foxes who had just stumbled upon an unguarded chicken coop.

But just as George was about to pull back the heavy drape, Nox darted in front of them.

"Oh no!" she said, warningly, arms outstretched on either side. "He'll kill you, believe me. I've only seen that man angry once and trust me when I say you don't want to see it. I did, and I had nightmares for a week, and so I'm telling you now, you don't want to see it."

Fred and George stood side by side with their arms folded across their chests, looking wholly unimpressed.

"I think you've made your point," said George.

"She was making a point?" Fred grunted. "I never would have guessed."

George peered around Nox's shoulder. "Looks to me like that mirror's got some kind of curse or jinx on it. Doesn't seem much like a Muggle invention, either," he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully while Nox jumped away from the mirror, nervously. He edged a little closer, peering at the glittering silver scales. "That looks like Goblin silver, that does. Bet you five galleons Bill would know."

"Crusty old antiques aside," Fred interrupted him, "did anyone feel an icy draft blow in after that guy?" he said with a laugh.

"What?" Nox asked, furrowing her brow.

The twins both stared at her incredulously.

"You don't think he's a bit _odd_?" said George with a disbelieving look on his freckled face.

"Of course I do," Nox replied, to his surprise, in a very easy manner. "Not as odd as you two, but yes, I guess I'd have to be blind not to notice Caith's eccentricities." She shrugged her thin shoulders at them and tried to explain, "I suppose I've just gotten used to him over the years."

Fred was shaking his head in disbelief. "Nox, you get used to a new toaster or a new pair of socks…"

"You _don't_ get used to working with the Grim Reaper," George added, with a forced a shudder. "Not without looking over your shoulder every five minutes."

"Grim Reaper's right." Fred snorted. "He gives me the heebie jeebies. Look, Diggle's son is still available. I'll send him an owl now -"

"No you won't!" Nox said sharply. "You two shouldn't judge people on their looks alone. If I had trusted my first instincts on meeting the two of you, I'd have run a mile," she said firmly.

"Oh, thanks very much, Miss High-and-Mighty," Fred said, coolly.

"I'll fetch you a crown to go with that ego, shall I?" George added, in a very serious voice.

Nox ignored them both and folded her arms behind her back, taking a few paces across the floor towards her desk. "I'm only saying that Caithion isn't as… _Reaperish_ as people make him out to be," she said, regaining some of her composure. "If you gave him the same chance I gave you, you might see that."

Fred and George exchanged glances again and settled down. Neither twin looked completely convinced by her speech, but as it appeared they didn't have much of a choice other than to comply, they nodded (or in Fred's case, grunted), their agreement.

"We are but your humble patrons and are governed by your every command," said George with a sweeping bow.

Nox quirked her head and smirked at him. "No need for the melodrama, you've made your point. Thank you."

"Well, so long as her Majesty approves, we're buggering off into town for a bit," Fred told her. "We've gotta check out the shop. It's been a week since we've been in," he said thoughtfully.

George nodded. "Lee and Verity are going to kill us." He paused and added after receiving an icy stare from Fred, "Figuratively speaking."

"Is this the shop you were telling me about the other day?" Nox enquired, looking quite intrigued.

Now it was George's turn to fix his twin with an icy stare. "You _told_ her?"

Fred whirled around to avoid his brother's accusatory gaze and said innocently, "I may have mentioned something off hand…"

George seethed and muttered, "Tosser."

Nox took a few steps back towards Fred, an eager light in her grey eyes. "I don't suppose you could –"

"Absolutely not!" said Fred, stretching his arms out in front of him as if to hold her back.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask," said Nox waspishly.

"Yes I do. You were about to stick that nutty, Noxy, nose of yours into other people's very private business again."

Nox huffed and blew her fringe out of her eyes. "You make me sound like the scum of the earth. I thought we were meant to trust each other?"

"Do you trust me?" Fred asked.

"Not as far as I could throw you," Nox replied, shooting him a sardonic smile.

"Ah, I love an honest swindler!" chortled George.

"We're walking on thin ice with the Ministry as it is having you stay here," Fred told her. "So we can't exactly go waltzing into Diagon Alley with you on our arms or we'd be well and truly buggered. And right now we're only escaping buggery by the skin of our teeth."

"So, no _Muggles_," she said carefully, testing the word, "have ever been to this Diagon Alley before?"

"Not exactly," said George and his Cheshire cat grin swept across his face. "If a Muggle were to marry into a magical family then it's all right, so long as they make a vow to keep their big gobs shut." George elbowed her playfully and chuckled, "So it would be fine if you wanted to get hitched to me."

"That's a bit extreme," she said, looking amused.

"Well you could marry me," Fred announced, jamming his thumb into his silvery chest.

Nox slanted her eyes at him. "I'm not that desperate."

"You wound me!"

**oOo**

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was as packed as ever. Children of all ages were jostling around the shop, sticking their sticky fingers into jars of Jelly Eyes, Extendable Ears and Screaming Scarpers, those of which were squealing loudly and darting all around in their glass confines. Occasionally, Fred would pounce through a shelf of Skiving Snackboxes onto an unsuspecting first year, who would then tear out of the shop, screaming.

"Oi!" shouted a voice from behind the counter. "You're losing us business, Frederick!"

"Come off it, Lee," said Fred bracingly. "The ickle kiddies love me!"

A small child who had just unwittingly walked through Fred, burst into tears and ran sobbing to their mother. Lee roared with laughter.

"Oh yeah, I can see that."

Ron, the youngest brother in the twins' family, had initially stepped up to help around the shop in the first year after Fred's death, but as he was now a fully-fledged Auror (Dark Wizard catcher), the twins had been forced to look for help elsewhere. After all, it looked like their own new business venture was going to need a lot of attention. Thankfully Lee Jordan, the twins' long-time friend from school, had offered up his talents as a manager and showman. While Lee had already found employment as a Quidditch commentator, the Quidditch season didn't blast off for another three months so he had promised Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes his complete attention until then.

Of course, Fred and George had not told him what their new business venture entailed and Lee knew them better than to ask.

"So," Lee began, leaning over the counter in his brightly coloured magenta work robes (which George had been forced to man-handle him into), "I heard you've been out of the city for a bit. Spreading your charms to new and distant lands, ay?"

Fred smiled and tapped his nose secretively. "Something like that."

"Charming the innocent hearts of young female spectres across the country, is more like it," a voice said behind him. Fred spun around to see Angelina Johnson followed by Katie Bell coming through the shop door. He grinned and raised his hand by way of greeting.

"Now Angie, don't get jealous," Fred leaned an arm on a shelf above her head and said slyly, "You know you're the only girl for me."

"Funny thing that," said Angelina, smiling ironically. "I heard you told Amelia Raddish the same thing just last month." Still smiling, she slid passed him to a box of Pygmy Puffs in the corner, with Katie Bell giggling in tow. Every now and again, Angelina's dark eyes would search out Fred and he wondered vaguely if she had missed him while he'd been gone.

"I don't believe it," Lee was saying, shaking his head irritably. "You're six feet under and she still bloody well prefers you over me. I don't know how you do it, you fat-headed toss pot."

Fred wiggled his eyebrows at Lee, beaming. "It's my animal magnetism. I'm telling you, mate, girls love a bit of tragedy. I'm getting more owls than ever now that I'm pushing up the daisies."

Lee clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "Spare a few for the poor and needy, would you?"

"Not even one, mate."

"Smarmy git."

George pushed back a curtain, his arms full of Nosebleed Nougats, bouncying Pygmy Puffs and a new range of Worry Warts. "Only finished testing these on Thursday," he sighed, dumping the boxes on a shelf and scratching the back of his neck. "Nasty side effects, the first batch had."

Fred gave an involuntary shudder. "Blimey, the _puss!_ You could've filled a bucket load – "

Lee was making a gagging face and waving his hands wildly. "Cheers very much for the mental picture."

"There he is!" a group of children shouted gleefully from the door. They ran up to the counter and began to chant and shout excitedly: "_Uncle Lee! Uncle Lee!_"

"'Uncle Lee?'" George repeated with a growing smirk.

"Shut your face, 'Mr Weasley'," Lee grumbled and turned to his awaiting crowd. "All right you little buggers, what's it you want today?"

"Show us a Bullfrog Banger!"

"Nah, give us a Dragon Darts."

"No, no – Scorching Salamander!"

Lee nodded. "All right, Scorching Salamander it is then. Stand back kiddies – the show's about to begin!" He picked a bright orange bobble from a jar on the counter and swallowed it whole. Ten seconds later, Lee's hair began to rush back into his forehead, replaced by hundreds of tiny orange scales. His face elongated and a long red tongue darted from his reptilian lips, belching fire which coiled and spun in the air to form rude words. The children whooped and cheered in delight, while their parents tutted angrily.

"That's a good look for you Lee!" Fred called out over the din.

"We're going to leave you to it, mate," George added, leaving the last batch of Worry Warts on a tightly packed shelf. "Gotta buy me a new wand, then it's back to business."

"Never a dull moment with you two, eh?" said Lee, this slimy salamander scales already receding. "Well come over to the Leaky Cauldron later. It's been ages since we had a pint and caught up."

George waved and nodded. "We'll be there."

"You can count on it," Fred winked and together they left the shop and began walking down Diagon Alley.

The twins made their way slowly down the street in a vain effort to put off the task they both knew they'd have to complete on their return to Weasley Manor.

"Oi… George," said Fred after minute of subdued silence. He didn't know how to approach the topic at hand. When his twin made no show that he had heard him, Fred pressed a cold, semi-transparent finger into his cheek. "Budge up, mate! I'm talking to you."

George looked up quickly. "Hmm? What? Oh, right, sorry. I'm listening."

Fred considered him a moment, then continued. "I was just thinking if we should bother with this whole detective malarkey."

That certainly caught his brother's attention. George turned to look at him sharply. "You are kidding, right? Tell me you're bloody kidding?"

Fred did not look at him, but continued, sullenly. "Look, we don't know what we're getting into here. Danger's fine when it's just you and me, George, but I'm not going to risk someone else's neck just to save my –"

"_Soul?_" said George, stressing the word.

"She doesn't know what we're dragging her into. Blimey, even we don't know what we're getting ourselves into. And Nox doesn't have magic to protect herself." He ran his hands through his silver hair. "Two Muggles dead already - it's not instilling me with the greatest of confidence you know."

"That wasn't our fault," George snapped angrily.

Fred stopped, feeling a bit guilty that he'd spoken so rashly. "Sorry, mate. About Lucie, I didn't mean…" He stopped. There was nothing he could say. George had not broached the topic of her death since Dartmoor and Fred had decided it was probably best to leave it that way. "Look, all I'm trying to say is, after the war and everything; I'm not so ready to go risking lives again. 'Specially yours."

George looked at him seriously. "Nox is smarter than you give her credit for, Fred."

"Maybe," Fred said with a small smile, "but I doubt it."

George heaved a heavy sigh. "Okay, you might be right. It could get dangerous," George relented, then suddenly he stopped outside an ancient looking shop: Old Mallards Magical Mayhem. A sign lower down read 'Junk in a Trunk; purchase at your own discretion'. George grinned broadly. "But I might have an idea. Come on!"

**oOo**

The twins had been gone a good few hours when Nox had finished unpacking all of her belongings into her new bedroom. She looked around, feeling a rush of pride with her new living quarters. Stacks of books were piled high on every available surface, including the old trunk she had brought over from her previous flat. The trunk, itself, went well with the old Victorian furnishings and four poster bed. It already felt like home.

Her stomach suddenly rumbled, low and loud, demanding to be fed at once. Nox checked her watch: two o'clock. She didn't fancy grabbing a take-out. The city had been mercilessly attacked by violent thunderstorms almost solidly for three days now.

'_And they call this Summer,'_ she mused and resigned herself to searching the place for something to eat.

It took Nox another half hour to locate the kitchen in Weasley Manor, and was sporting a few new cuts and bruises from her expedition. She found the impressive room behind the yellow painted door labelled 'Phineas Codex'. On entering the large, rectangular room, Nox was instantly struck by the array of bright colours. The kitchen appeared to be surrounded by gardens similar to those she had seen on her first venture around the house - only these did not look nearly as deadly. Above the kitchen there rose a pyramid shaped glass roof, its hundreds of panes stained a different colour or pattern. Nox stood and listened to the heavy rain drumming against the glass, marvelling every time a lightning flash lit up the room.

In the centre of the room gushed an enormous, ivory white fountain. A silvery stream of water gurgled from its topmost spout, which was shaped like the head of a vicious sea serpent. On further inspection, Nox could see that there were several spouts sticking out around the lower levels of the fountain, each with the head of a different mythical sea creature and plastered with labels like Butterbeer, Lemondew and Pumpkin juice.

She licked her lips, but managed to rope in the reigns of her curiosity for the time being. "One biscuit is enough to teach me a lesson I'll never forget," she chuckled to herself.

At the back of the room there stood an old stove and peat fire. There was a long sturdy wooden table, a sink piled high with dirty dishes and so many shelves stacked high with pots, pans and strange unmarked bottles that she had to wonder at how they ever stayed up there.

Nox could admit that the more she saw of Weasley Manor, the more she wanted to know what Fred and George really were if they did not call themselves 'Muggles'.

Her stomach growled and she was at once reminded of her hunt for food.

Unfortunately, the contents of the kitchen cupboards consisted entirely of a jar of pickled peaches, a tin of prunes steeped in syrup, an empty packet of Jammy Dodgers and a dark bottle of something labelled Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. Nox grimaced and moved to open the fridge door, with little in the way of high expectations: she was greeted with an old lettuce, an open tin of beans, and five bottles of milk so old there appeared to be a thriving bacterial ecosystem living in each one.

Nox frowned at the contents of the fridge and muttered to herself, "Even I'm not this bad and that's really saying something."

She pushed back the lettuce to see if there was anything remotely edible behind it, only to discover something furry and scabby lurking at the back. It glared at her with bright yellow eyes, snarling and spitting. Nox gave the creature a withering look then closed the door.

"A joyous surprise round every corner," she muttered sarcastically, grabbing her wallet and heading back out into the main hall. It looked like it would have to be take-out after all.

Suddenly the house erupted with a whistling, shrieking tumult. When it had finished and Nox had pulled her fingers out of her ears, she remembered that the whistle trumpeted the presence of a visitor at the door. Nox ran to the front of the house, expecting to find the twins there. Instead she came face to face with a most unusual girl, whose features were lit by a menacing flash of blue lightning. Nox nearly squeaked in fright.

The girl before her was soaked to the bone and standing in the downpour in a pair of blue welly boots, a vague smile on her dreamy face. She wore a plastic poke-a-dot hat, like an old fisherman's cap, and what looked like a long stick stuck out from behind one ear. Her large, misty eyes studied Nox curiously, but she remained silent as she stood on the step, apparently waiting for something. Nox realised that she too had been staring and quickly averted her eyes to the clipboard in the girl's hands.

'_Some religious nut,'_ thought Nox grimly and began to close the door with a pleasant, "Sorry, not interested."

"Oh, I'm not selling anything," said the girl who quickly slipped between the closing gap and into the house before Nox had the time to blink. Nox watched in awe at the girl's audacity as she began wringing the water out of her long dirty blonde hair onto the floor.

A thought struck Nox and she smiled pleasantly. "Erm, George is a friend of yours I take it."

"Not exactly. I don't have many of those," replied the girl plainly.

"Many of those _what's_?" asked Nox in a jumble.

"'Thoseworts'?" The girl repeated. "I'm afraid I haven't come across any of those. You might be kind enough to describe one for me. I'm cataloguing a list of magical beasts and creatures living in city centres, you see." She pulled a quill from out of a worn leather satchel hanging across her neck and said, "When you're ready."

"No, no," said Nox quickly, pushing the quill gently away. "I meant… never mind. Who exactly are you?"

The dreamy girl looked very surprised to be asked the question, but she quickly stuck out her hand to Nox's and smiled warmly. "Luna Lovegood."

Nox returned her smile in like and shook the girl's extended hand. "Nox –"

"Wolfe, yes I know," said Luna hazily and began to wander around the expansive circular hallway. Her head lolled back onto her shoulders as she gazed up into the high glass dome, and the lightning flashing above it.

"It's very pretty here. I should have visited before now," said Luna looking very thoughtful as she slowly spun around and around on her spot. "But I suppose I did not have a reason to. My father is good friends with the Weasleys and I know Ginny Wesley well enough, but I never have talked much to Fred and George." Luna appeared to float rather than walk towards the portrait of the man named Dumbledore hanging on the wall. "They always seemed very busy with their friends and experiments, but I think they might remember me. I hope they do; I rather like them. They're very funny." She turned her dreamy gaze on Nox who looked positively puzzled, and asked suddenly, "Do you remember me?"

"No, sorry," replied Nox, looking very surprised. "Should I?" she asked.

Luna smiled faintly. "No, I didn't think you would. But I had hoped," she said honestly in such a serene tone that Nox was left feeling guilt-ridden and uncomfortable, without knowing exactly why. She wondered what she was to do with the strange girl who was silently drifting around the hallway like a spectre.

Nox was about to offer Luna a drink (maybe she would know how to work the taps on the kitchen fountain), when two loud _CRACKS_ sounded the arrival of the twins.

"Luna!" cried George looking shocked. "What are you doing here?"

Fred peered around his twin and a broad grin spread across his features. "Looney Luna!" he laughed gleefully. "Haven't seen you in donkey's years! Where've you been?"

"It's very nice that you remember me," beamed Luna, looking delighted, and stuck out her hand to first George then to Fred, whose semi-transparent hand kept slipping through hers while she shook it. "I've been travelling in Ireland tracking Green-tailed Snarksnats over the past year," she explained brightly.

"Green-tailed _what_?" Fred repeated with wide eyes.

"So, what can we do for you Lunakins?" asked George a bit hurriedly. He was carrying a heavy bag of what looked like old junk and didn't appear in the mood to be entertaining guests.

"Backing," the outlandish blonde girl said simply. "Daddy said you might be interested."

"Backing for what exactly?" asked Fred, running a hand through his dishevelled silver hair.

"I'm hoping to start an extensive study and catalogue of overlooked magical creatures in Britain and Ireland," she said and handed George the clipboard in her hand, who began to casually flip through it. "You see, I'm afraid the Department for the Regulation and Control for Magical Creatures isn't prone to taking me very seriously, and so I thought I might come to you."

'_Magical creatures?'_ Nox's head was swimming. Her ears were pricked and listening earnestly to the conversation.

"If we formed an alliance," Luna went on, "you would be the first to reap the benefits of any new discovery."

Fred looked amused. "You've got a sharper nose for business than I'd have expected, Looney Lu."

However, George handed the girl back her clipboard and said quickly, "We're too busy at the moment, Fred. Sorry Luna."

Luna's large misty eyes dimmed a little and she nodded her head in understanding. "That's alright. Sorry to have bothered you." She turned to leave. The look on her face made Nox want to whack George across the back of his head.

"Oi, Luna – wait!" Fred shouted. "What my dear twin means is that we're too busy right this second." He put his hands in his pockets and winked at her kindly. "We'll see you tomorrow about noon."

Luna positively beamed at him and looked for a moment like she wanted to throw her arms around the ghostly man. "Thank you!" she said in great relief. "I'll return as soon as the mongoose cries." Luna began to trot back to the front door, before pausing and adding over her shoulder, "Oh, I hope you know that you're swarming with Wrackspurts in here. Be careful, they can be quite nasty at this time of year." She smiled at Nox then opened the door and disappeared into the storm.

"_Fred_ – " George began to protest, but Fred just wagged his finger in his twin's face and whispered craftily, "Benefits, dear brother, benefits."

George sniffed and crossed his arms, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "There had better be," he muttered ruefully.

**oOo**

A few hours later, after being fed and watered, the twins resigned themselves to their duty and left Nox working in her office.

The Halls of Fortitude were just what you would expect from the title: an enormous marble hall stretching so far into the depths of Weasley Manor, that the end was barely visible. Hundreds of narrower passages and staircases snaked off the main hall, travelling this way and that. Statues and colourful frescoes littered the floors and painted every inch of the walls and curved ceiling.

Fred and George walked confidently through the enormous passage, the heels of George's boots clacking with every step. They travelled a small flight of stone steps up to a set of heavy oak doors and entered. Fred had always supposed the murky room they were now in had once been a grand ballroom, though it had obviously been years since anyone had put it to use. The ballroom was almost as big as the main hall and twice as striking. On entering visitors were at once drawn to the great bulk hanging overhead that was the chandelier, as large as a small bus. At the far end of the room there stood a long white marble fireplace. Fred and George strode purposefully towards it.

"Let's test that new stick of yours out, then," said Fred, and grinning, George plucked the wand from his pocket and flicked it at the wall:

"_Conversiö!_"

Rumbling and groaning, the enormous mantelpiece began to shift, rotating clockwise until the twins were facing a bare brick wall.

George flicked his wand again and muttered softly, "_Appareré._"

As they watched, thin spidery letters began to scrawl across the cobwebbed wall before them, written by an unseen hand and sparking green fire. Fred and George read the familiar letters, appearing and disappearing with every stanza:

_Enter stranger to the house of Nevermore  
For those who cross the threshold,  
Will face darkness through the door._

_I am the beginning of eternity,  
The end of summer days,  
The beginning of every end,  
And the end of every phase._

_To Antioch, I gave the Stick  
To Cadmus, the Stone  
Ignotus, he caught the cloak,  
And lived his life alone._

_One year I grant to the undead ever',  
Fond of life and jest and pleasure,  
Who loves attention without measure,  
To seek the Seven Sins of man._

_But hark, take heed!  
There is no need,  
To put much measure,  
On wizard's greatest pleasure._

_For those born blind,  
But now do see,  
And put their faith  
In pen, not sword,  
Are far more like  
To win your reward._

"Yes, yes, that's all fine and dandy," said Fred to the wall with a tone of indignation. "But we've read it all before. Go on and get on with it."

George nodded eagerly. "Tell us what to we do with this," he demanded and plonked the piece of worn glass he was holding down on the dusty floorboards beneath the wall.

_Daughter of justice  
Sister of Wrath  
Nothing did bar  
Her vengeful path_

"Right," said Fred with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, "that clears everything up. Stupid poxy wall. Tell us something useful or we'll plaster you!"

George nodded. "How do we find the next case?" he asked the wall. There was a pause then the green fire writing began again:

_Leave the Muggle to find  
The Sin of her kind_

Fred and George glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, but before they could pester the wall with further questions, they heard Nox calling their names from the Halls of Fortitude, her voice echoing off the walls.

With a spin and a _CRACK,_ the twins Disapparated in front of her. She squeaked with surprise and toppled over, wincing with pain as her bum hit the hard marble floor.

"You hollered?" They leered.

"I was doing some research." Nox held a hastily scribbled piece of parchment up to their identical faces and grinned triumphantly. "I think I've found our next client."

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N: **Gah, I really didn't mean to make this chapter so long. T'was only meant to be a short break chap, lol. Ah well, the second casebook starts on the next chapter! Thank you again for all the amazing support. I probably would have dumped this fic if it weren't for your great comments (hmm, well maybe not dumped – think I love Fred too much to dump him in an unfinished story). By the way, anyone want me to draw a particular scene from the story? I'm bored and need an idea xx 


	9. Casebook 02: The Mire

**A/N:** I swear these chapters keep getting longer and longer every time! XD Thanks for putting up with them guys. And sorry I haven't got back to everyone who has reviewed yet. I've just had a crazy week, but I will reply to everyone asap. I love you all, fantabulous reviewers and favers - I grovel at your feet, thank you!!

This chapter is dedicated to **The-Gwyllion** on deviantart. She's doing a commission for me of Fred, George and Nox (I just got the lineart and I'm so excited to see the finished art!). If you're a twins fan and you haven't seen her work before, for goodness sake, what are you waiting for?! Anyway, to say thanks I gave a Gwyllion (welsh faeries) a small cameo in this chapter

**P.s.** Caith, what would I do without you mate?

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

The Mire

**oOo**

The Hanging Dog Inn had emptied its very last patron onto the streets of Aber Duafe. The young man was staggering along the sea wall, his hand wrapped stubbornly around his pint glass while he bellowed bits and pieces of songs he had heard from bygone years, into the night.

"Rhiannon rings like a bell throu' the night! Takes to the sky like a bird in flight!" he hollered, leaping onto the sea wall. Beneath him the water lapped lazily against the base of the slimy concrete. The night was cold and clear, and silent, all except for the drunk man dancing along to the tune of his song.

"And who'd be her lover! eh -" He paused, wobbling a bit on the sea wall and squinted into the night. He had heard something through the darkness sloshing across the lamp lit street behind him. It had sounded like wet cloth dragging across the stone. After a minute he shrugged his shoulders and threw himself into a new tuneless song, jumping from the wall with a half trip and swaying into the village's empty market place. There was only one light here: a tall old lantern. Its gas fixture had been replaced years ago with a white bulb that cast a ghostly glow across the square.

There was a sudden clatter up ahead. He stopped; there was that indefinable slithering again, dragging itself across the pavement behind him. He spun around, spilling the contents of his pint glass everywhere. There was nothing but the sea wall behind him now and, further on, the rhythmic bright flash of the lighthouse.

"What the bleeding…" he launched into a stream of colourful invectives then carried across the marketplace, grumbling, when his boot crunched on something hard. He looked down: a wax doll in a pretty red dress stared blankly up at him. The man laughed loudly. "Who's left you out in the night, little girlie?" he picked up the doll and smirked -

- and lifted his head almost as abruptly. The sound of the wet swishing of heavy cloth was growing louder, closer. It was a horrible, sobering sound. Somehow he knew not to turn around again, but his body wasn't listening to his brain: there she stood, just a few feet behind him, dripping wet and smiling gravely. She reached her glistening arms, impossibly long, towards him. Water flooded the marketplace, a roaring, growling torrent that surged towards him.

A heart piercing cry split the night.

**oOo**

The weather outside had worsened, if that was possible. June always had been a popular month for thunderstorms of the 'jump out your socks and wet yourself' kind, and this year had been no exception. Nox thought back to the storm at Rosewood the night the apple tree had appeared at her window in that monstrous form, and shuddered at the memory.

She was by no means a brave person. Fred was brave. George was brave. Somehow Nox had known this instinctively, even before any of the events that had occurred at Rosewood. Oh she would stand her ground well enough and she did not suffer fools gladly, but given the choice between battling a werewolf and sitting curled up by the fire at home with a good book, Nox would undoubtedly choose the latter. It wasn't that she did not want to go recklessly exploring the world like the twins appeared to do, but she could not envision herself as one of those strong, beautiful heroines in all the fantasy adventure novels she'd poured over as a child. Adventure seemed to spin itself around her regardless, so she supposed it didn't really matter if she was a bit of a coward.

Nox leaned back into her chair and tucked her thumbs underneath her braces. "So I'm a little too cautious," she casually conversed with herself, then added a bit guiltily; "Alright, a lot too cautious. But there's a stack things I could be that are a hell of a lot worse. I think…"

She checked her reflection in a weather beaten mirror hanging on the wall behind her desk, half expecting to find grey hairs growing out the top of her head. She could do with a new shirt or pair of boots (her toes were almost poking through the soles of her lace-ups). Life had always been a struggle money-wise. After her parents messy divorce, Nox had opted to stay with her whimsical father, (who hadn't the foggiest notion of how to juggle finances), patiently trudging after him across the country from one city to another every time a change of scenery took his fancy:

"I'd quite enjoy the pleasure of a nice sea view, what do you say Old Sport?" or, "I'd quite relish the rigorous air of the city, what say you Old Fellow?" or, "I'd quite like to pack the old lungs with a nice filling of good old fashioned country air, ay Old Sausage? Nothing quite like it, don't-choo know!"

Living arrangements with her father had always chopped and changed, but they had become even more erratic in the year coming up to his disappearance. Nox sometimes had to wonder if there wasn't any truth to the rumours the tabloids had spread about her father. Looking at it objectively, she could see why some people had gossiped in the papers that they had been on the run.

Nox pushed her shirt collar back off her shoulder so that she could see the tip of a long, pink scar reflected in the dirty mirror. "1998," she chuckled to herself, recalling the accident. "Not our finest year."

She slid back around in her chair and faced the pewter framed photograph sitting on her desktop. In the picture her portly father had thrown his stubby arms around her shoulders in a vice grip, looking very excited in his maroon waistcoat and poke-a-dot bowtie, and was flashing a peace sign at the camera. Towering over them both stood the figure of Caithion Sidhe, tall, dark and solemn, a habitual cigarette clasped between two long fingers.

She thought back to what the twins had told her about her father being a well-known Squib in their community. What a Squib was, Nox wasn't at all positive, but she did know one thing for certain:

"You were keeping secrets from me" she mused, steepling her fingers. "Sodding old goat."

"I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as he floated through the door with George. "Hope you weren't referring to me again."

"You chit-chat with yourself more than you talk to us, and that's saying something considering your lovely trap is rarely shut," said George as he thrust a piece of yellowing, torn parchment on top of her desk. Nox raised her clear eyes to George's smirking ones. "We're ready to leave the moment you sign our little contract."

Behind him Fred's pearly-white ghost was juggling four pieces of mouldy looking fruit. "Yeah, so hurry your arse along, if you please. We're grabbing the post van up there, seeing as you refuse to Apparate and all."

Nox read the neatly scrawled handwriting on the piece of parchment signed by one Kingsley R. Shacklebolt. A long, empty line at the bottom of the paper awaited her signature.

She turned a wary eye on the twins. "I have to sign now? Can't I wait and have another think about it while we're in Wales?"

"Ah, bless her little heart."

"Not unless you fancy camping outside old Batty Hati's house," answered George.

"Who is _Batty Hati_?" Nox stammered.

"Well, she's a witch, isn't she? Ah – bugger!" Fred cursed as he lost his concentration and the pieces of fruit dropped through his hands, landing with a _splat_ on the floor.

She leaned her head on her hand and smiled wryly at the ghost. "Maybe that was a bad omen."

"Nope, no sign – just _sign_," said Fred pointing at the contract while George rolled his eyes.

"You're ruddy obsessed with omens, you are. Next I expect you'll be running through the streets holding a massive sign and screaming 'the end is nigh!'"

Warily, Nox obeyed, picking up the offered quill from George, and signed her name along the empty line. One day she would listen to that little warning voice at the back of her head over the twin's snappy remarks and jeering comments.

One day – just not today.

**oOo**

"Oh ay."

The post van driver slammed down the cover on the smoking engine and wiped his greasy fingers down the front of his navy jacket.

"That's it packed up and make no mistake," he grumbled and pulled a mobile phone the size of a small brick from his pocket. "I'll call for a pick up. It should only be about an hour. You two aren't in a rush, I hope?" he asked George and Nox who were sitting on a large grey boulder by the side of the road. He could not see the figure of the pearly-white ghost leaning over them.

George shrugged his shoulders absently. "Nah, no rush, but we'll walk from here anyway. I don't think it's much further. We'll cut across the country and round the mire."

The postman looked at him doubtfully. "You're a couple of those townies who like to walk for fun, aren't you?" He shook his head and tutted. "Well whatever floats your log. You don't want to be walking near the fens past dark, mind. You're in Welsh country now, lad, and there's old Jenny Greenteeth in those swamps." His eyes glittered in amusement.

George only grinned and said, "We'll be fine."

"Who's Jenny Greenteeth?" Nox asked him when they were a little ways down the beaten road. The morning post van was now just a red dot behind them.

"She's a famous swamp hag around these parts," answered Fred. "But don't worry your nutty head – she only snarfs down ickle children. Course, you do have the body of a twelve year old, so you might want to keep as far away from the edge as possible."

Nox bit her lip. She hated when Fred toyed with her cowardice.

But the twins had apparently caught the look of apprehension on her face because they each slung an arm around her shoulders. The little hairs on the back of her neck stung at the icy contact of Fred's non-corporeal arm. He felt like pins and needles, and ice cold water.

"Tut-tut! Wipe that look off your face, Noxy."

"Don't worry your Mugglesome head!"

"There's no need to wet your pants at every shadow."

"Remember, you're in a wizard's company," George told her shrewdly. "And now that you've signed that pesky contract, I'm free to perform any magic I want in front of you."

"So don't get worked up about hags and vamps, and the like," said Fred airily.

Nox pulled a face. "As long as you don't blow me up in the meantime."

"You're too serious, you are!" said Fred. "Comes of reading all those grim and important books. One day they'll just swallow you up, you know, and all that'll be left is a pair of abnormally sized boots."

"Oh shut up." Nox kicked up the leaves at the side of the road. "It's my responsibility to worry. If I didn't and you two were left to your own devices, God only knows what would become of you."

The twins snorted indignantly.

"Well I never!"

"How disrespectful!"

"And she calls us cheeky."

"I don't know how we ever managed to cope twenty five years before your giant feet kicked down our door," said Fred. "Thank you for reminding us to bask in your glorious presence."

"Oh I'm sorry," Nox snapped at him. "I didn't realise becoming a ghost was what you called 'coping'."

Fred opened his mouth to reply then stopped, looking cross, and mumbled under his breath, "Better than being a boring Muggle on a fanciful ego-trip."

They scowled furiously at each other.

George glanced between his twin and Nox, and cleared his throat noisily. "Right... well… If you're quite finished …" Fred only grunted in reply, looking deeply irritated, while Nox muttered a scathing comment about the flippancy of ghosts.

They had cut off the road to follow a high mountain path, which George claimed to be a shortcut. As they walked through the Welsh countryside, the land around them swept up into high rolling hills and green pastures dotted with boulders and strange pointed menhirs. Nox knew this was King Arthur's land. There was Arthur's stone near Cefn Bryn in the Gower Peninsula and the legendary wizard Merlin was rumoured to be buried somewhere nearby in a deep rocky tomb. A thought suddenly struck her: if the twins were the wizards they claimed to be, and creatures like werewolves and hags were as real as cats and dogs, then could it be possible that Arthur had once ridden across these fields with loyal Merlin at his side? Nox cast a glance at Fred and remembered they weren't talking. She'd ask George later then.

Her brief glance had caught Fred's attention and they locked gazes for an uncomfortable moment. He turned his head quickly, still looking stubborn. Nox felt guilty. She knew she shouldn't have gone off like that, but she couldn't bring herself to apologise either.

George must have felt the need to break the tension, because he'd been babbling almost non-stop since their argument. "Dad was saying this is real old country out here. The rural land's rife with imps and water spirits, and a few really lethal hags. And I brought along some Doxycide just in case. Course, none of that matters because I'm talking to myself here. I could probably say anything I like, like the pair of you are in the possession of enormous fat heads which could easily house a family of giants, including distant relatives and their forty second cousins twice removed."

"I heard _that_," said Fred glaring.

"Can I ask something?" Nox enquired, deciding to take advantage of Fred's break in silence. "Who gives you permission to use magic in front of Muggles? Some sort of wizarding council?"

"The Ministry of Magic does," said George. "It's a bit like your government and just as messed up, I reckon. Or at least it was. Good old Kingsley Shacklebolt is clearing all the dim-wits and Umbridges out, and Hermione's doing her bit too."

"Sticking her brilliant nose in where it doesn't belong, as usual," said Fred looking amused. "A bit like you, Noxy."

"Don't start," she warned, but felt happier now that he was talking to her again. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. His name was on that contract. Is he a wizard too?"

"Is he a wizard?" Fred repeated, laughing. "Course he is! One of the best."

"Hermione too – a witch, I mean," said George. "There's loads of us, you know."

"I didn't know," said Nox in amazement. "I mean you've mentioned this Ministry before, but I never imagined it was so big; more like a bunch of grizzly old farts in a dank little dungeon, sitting round a table and debating cauldron thickness, and wand length."

"Blimey," Fred whispered in George's ear. "She's not half wrong."

"It's incredible," Nox continued, "that all this can go on right under people's noses. You'd think that something would slip past the Ministry and … what the devil? …" Nox had suddenly stopped deadly still. The twins paused beside her, following her bewildered gaze, curiously to the large faeries sitting on either side of their path.

Lithe and greenish-grey in colour, Nox first mistook them for part of the rocks, then later as two young children. But now that she really _looked_ she could see that they were definitely neither. Disturbingly quiet, they sat on two small boulders at opposite sides of the mountain path, perched perfectly still and staring keenly at the passing travellers.

"What are they?" Nox asked eagerly.

"They're faerie folk," answered Fred.

"Gwyllion, I think." George added, stroking his chin. "Never seen one myself, mind."

Nox crept closer to the one on her left-hand side, smiling tentatively. "Erm, hello there… nice day, isn't it?"

The Gwyllion narrowed their eyes at her and then, with a sudden spine-unhinging _hiss,_ both faeries sprang from their rocks and disappeared into the dark trees ahead. Nox stood there looking frazzled while the twins guffawed loudly.

"That was classic!"

"You're a right old exemplar of heroism, Nox!"

They followed the Gwyllion's lead down a narrow lane that ran deep into a wood. A warm wind was gusting down the path to greet them, whipping up leaves and the dank earthy smell of old trees and damp undergrowth.

Nox sighed dejectedly. "There's no point in me telling you not to go in there, I suppose."

"None whatsoever," the twins replied vaguely and carried on into the wood. Nox followed suite at a doleful pace. She kept her eyes on the branches as they walked, remembering the apple tree back at Rosewood Estate. The sun was bright above them and broke through the crooked canopy at irregular intervals, but the leaves on the trees were glossy and shining with dew. Nox couldn't be sure if it had been raining that morning or whether the wood was always so soggy.

"What else lives in the woods around here?" She called to the twins who were leaping from the tall dirt banks on either side of the path, and swinging from branch to branch like freckled Tarzans.

"Foxes… "

"Birds… "

"Squirrels… "

"Rabbits… "

"Deer…"

"Yes, yes, but what lives here that's, you know… _magic?_" Nox asked quietly, as if she might scare off anything that happened to be loping nearby.

George skidded down a fallen log and jumped down beside her. "What, like that unicorn?" He turned her head around with his hand. There was a brilliant flash of white as something large and lissom like a deer, sped away into the deep green gloom.

Nox could only point and mouth wordlessly.

Smiling, George patted her head then dragged her stumbling from her spot. The path through the wood was getting deeper and the ground boggier. The tops of the trees loomed so close overhead that the golden sunlight, which had previously slanted through the leaves, could no longer penetrate the wood.

"So Hermione was a witch," said Nox after a while, trying to take her mind off the trees. "I never would have imagined. I grew up thinking all witches had crooked noses, pointy hats and warts on their fingers."

"Wait 'til you see our host for our stay then," said Fred.

"You won't be disappointed," added George. He picked his wand from his pocket and held it in front of him with a muttered, "Lumos." A beam of light shone from the tip of his wand, lighting the murky wood in front of them. "It's pretty dark down here. What's the time?"

Nox pulled a heavy chained pocket-watch from her coat pocket and read, "Half six. How far is this witch's house?"

"Not much further. Look, there's the mire. It's just round that." George motioned with his head to where their spindly path seemed to fritter out onto a large green pasture. If she hadn't known it was a swamp, Nox would have kept on walking straight into it. A layer of bright green algae covered the stinking marsh, which sank deep, deep down past the roots of the very tallest trees.

"The mire's ancient," George explained. "Older than any tree that's taken root around it and a hundred times as bloody lethal." He put the tip of his lit wand under his chin so that his face took on a grotesque and haunted appearance. "You know… they say the mire takes at least one human life a year…"

Nox could believe that. There was a terrible stench coming from the marsh so vile that soon she and George had to cover their nostrils with their sleeves as they approached it. It smelt of rotten meat and old fruit.

"Don't know about old Jenny Greenteeth, but there'll be Grindylows down there alright," said Fred, peering at the slick surface of the mire as they skirted the treacherously narrow path. "Oi, George? Remember that time when we were up here visiting Hati over summer and Mum caught us ready to jump in there?"

George laughed. "Yeah, she had us de-gnoming the garden for two months after that. Bloody nightmare!"

Nox smirked. "You don't fancy taking a swim now, eh?"

George sent her a sinful grin. "Not unless you make it worth my while."

Nox paused right at the edge of the mire and peered in. "I wonder if the police ever find anyone who drowns down there. I don't suppose they would. It looks impossible to swim in." She kicked a stone into the swamp and watched the mire swallowed it up without a trace. "By the way, how do you know Hati?"

"Batty Hati? She's a friend of Mum's," said Fred, looking up at the tree tops. The warm wind was gusting again, pushing against the top of the canopy and whistling through the wet black leaves. He frowned.

"Wacky, batty, half-handed Hati," George recited. "A good old sort, but we hated her as kids. She used to make us eat bat-wing broth and liver spuds. Bet you fifty Galleons this swamp water tastes better than her cooking." He paused then added as an afterthought, "Actually, I reckon she cooks everything in this stuff. Hey Fred? Think Hati's forgiven us for that time we put snakes in her –" A skeletal hand suddenly shot out of the mire to catch George by the ankle, dragging him down amongst the slick green marsh. For a moment Nox saw the hag's face, wet and pallid, rows of sharp green teeth in its open mouth as it bit down hard on his shoulder. George flung out his arms and tried to hit the hag with a curse, but the mire was already filling his mouth. His wand went flying onto the path as he disappeared from sight.

"Hell!" Fred dived in after him, the mire swallowing his ghostly form whole like a great maw.

Nox watched frantically over the lip of the swamp, but the green algae had covered both twins like a curtain over a stage set. There was no sign that George had fallen in at all. Muttering a swearword, Nox tore her long coat off and dived headfirst into the swampy water.

It was so cold and dark that Nox almost lost sense of where she was, and wondered if she would ever find the way up again as she kicked further down into the murk. Fred suddenly appeared at her side, glowing pearly white against the green gloom, shouting and pointing at George who was putting up a fierce struggle against the iron grip of the monstrous Jenny Greenteeth. The hag's evil green eyes shot towards Nox and in a flash its white face was inches in front of her own. A stiff, cold hand wrapped around her neck and squeezed, choking the air out of her lungs. Nox kicked and struggled wildly, pulling at the clawed hands which held she and George beneath the water, drowning them slowly.

Nox began to panic. George had stopped moving. She tried to call out to him when the blackness began to fill her own eyes…

A distant flash of blue light darted past her failing vision and the stiff fingers around her neck loosened at once. George and Nox began to rise up through the swamp, as if heaved by invisible hands. They came up at the edge of the bank, vomiting marsh water and taking long, greedy gulps of air.

"Heavens to Betsy, look at you two!" an old woman was saying with an added click of her tongue. "Never send a wizard to do a witch's job, that's what I always say," Nox raised her throbbing head to look at their saviour. A short plump witch – she must have been a witch for she couldn't be anything but – in a long black cloak and a pointed hat, stood on the mire's path, shaking her head and looking down her crooked nose at them. Fred was crouched in front of her, his face stricken as he bent closer to his twin.

George rolled onto his back, grinning and breathing deeply. "Hello Hati," he said. "We were just chatting about you."

**oOo**

Luna didn't mind the rain. She did, however, prefer a torrential downpour to the uncomfortable drizzling mist that was currently soaking every piece of clothing on her body, despite her brightly coloured plastic overalls. It couldn't be helped, she thought, while sitting on the step outside Weasley Manor. Fred and George were after all very important businessmen, and it had been kind of them to offer any time to her at all.

Course, she had been sitting on the doorstep for five hours now. She had tried reading the latest issue of _the Quibbler_, but it had quickly disintegrated in the weather. Luna tugged her knees to her chest and gazed distantly up at the sky. Suddenly there was a click of the door opening and a tall, pale-faced man in black stepped lithely into the rain. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and had lit the cigarette between his lips before he finally noticed her.

Luna stared silently up at him.

"Can I help you?" He asked in a heavy Irish accent, giving her an appraising sort of look.

"I do hope so." Luna stood to her feet ignoring the feeling of numbness in her arms and legs. "I had an appointment with Fred and George today, but I'm afraid I must have missed them. I guess I must have got the wrong time."

"I guess you must have." The man inhaled deeply from the stick in his mouth. "Did you knock earlier? I didn't hear you."

Luna nodded.

"It's a big house. Always knock three times." He exhaled a dark cloud of grey smoke. "I can't tell you where Fred is, but George Weasley is out tonight. I'm his secretary," he held out one long slender hand to hers, "Caithion."

"Luna Lovegood," she replied vaguely, her large protuberant eyes ranging over him carefully. "Could you tell me when George might be back? Only it's rather urgent that I talk with him."

"No." A smirk was beginning to form over the Irishman's face. "But I can take you to him."

**oOo**

Hati lived alone in a small cottage on the edge of the wood. It was quite isolated; only a little overgrown track led down a steep hill to join the road which ran into the shipping village. Despite its isolation, the view from the cottage was breathtaking and encompassed the whole of Aber Duafe and Bracelet Bay.

On the far left were the rising Fort Hills, a rich green carpet of beech, elder and oak covering their rolling tops. In the middle was the curving horseshoe of Bracelet Bay where dozens of shipping boats bobbed like huge white gulls on the glassy water. A few pubs and inn houses sat along the sea wall – people were already milling about the pier, downing beer and Guinness, and enjoying the last warm rays of the setting sun. At the right hand horn of the bay there was a rocky alcove where the tall white tower of the lighthouse was stationed, its bulb already flashing rhythmically.

Hags aside, Nox thought Aber Duafe must have been a very pleasant place to live.

Hati raised the latch and hurried them through the door. Nox stumbled a few times under George's weight as she helped him inside. He was heavier than he looked. The wound on his shoulder was growing angry and red, and his ankle was swelling fast.

"Does it hurt?" she asked once they were washed and sitting around the fire with thick blankets.

George nodded. "Like hell." He hissed as Hati began spreading thick green gloop that looked like guacamole across his wound.

"Blimey, George, you're really having a tough time of it mate," Fred was saying in a half-joking tone while Hati began bandaging his twin up. "Werewolves, hags… _Nox_."

Hati was shaking her head miserably. "Honestly boys, if your mother knew what you get up to sometimes! Well, anyway, that should draw out the poison, Georgie. Hags poison is a weak one, but it can keep a wound open for weeks if you don't treat it quick," said Hati grimly, wiping the green residue on the tales of her cloak. "I'm afraid your clothes won't be ready for a bit. Marsh water needs more than a good cleaning spell to scrub off. I'll try and find something for you to wear later."

"Sooner rather than later if you don't mind," said George. "I'd rather not sit here all night in my starkers, thanks."

"I'll second that." Fred leaned against the mantelpiece above him. "Another wonderful start to a case though, George – executed good and proper, I should think," he said with a pointed glance at his twin. George promptly ignored him.

Nox was huddled numbly on a squashy couch beside the fire. She could still taste the marsh water at the back of her throat. "I feel like I've just swallowed a pint of turps."

"What have you got to drink around here Hati?" asked George. "Swamp water leaves a terrible aftertaste you know."

Hati's watery yellow eyes gleamed. "I'll fetch the firewhiskey. That'll burn the marsh off your throat nice and well!" She shuffled away into an adjoining room, leaving looking Nox wide-eyed.

"I don't think I want it burned off …" She sneezed and wriggled her numb toes. "I can just about feel my feet again. Funny sort of place this, isn't it?" she said, looking around.

"Not half," Fred quipped.

Hati's cottage only had three rooms: a bedroom, a small toilet and the main room which tripled as a kitchen, dining and sitting area. Cluttered with knick-knacks and jars of varying coloured gunge, it was a mathematician's dream come true. Every piece of furniture in the cottage was exactly halved, like some mad genius had come wielding a knife of varying shape and size. The table stood dejectedly on two legs instead of four, the sofa bearing a cheerful grin of white foam. The halved clock chimed the hour (though it only had six to spare) while half a teapot bubbled on half a stove, near a halved cauldron, which defied the laws of physics entirely because not a drop of the liquid contents was spilling onto the floor.

Nox shook her head, hard.

"How clever of me," she muttered to herself. "I've found myself another rabbit hole."

"More like a Hati hole," Fred laughed, floating over to the halved sofa. "Come on, Noxy, budge up. There's room for one more!"

"I'll never get used to magic." Nox reluctantly shifted along the couch. "At least I know now why everyone calls her half-handed Hati." She eyed George's gloop covered wound with concern. "Look, George, you and Fred can head back home if you like. I'm pretty sure I can handle this case on my own."

The twins looked appalled at the suggestion.

Fred snorted. "Well done then. We'll just pack our bags and leave you to it."

"Chicken out!" George scoffed. "As if! You're having a lark, aren't you?"

"It's just a little bite, dear, nothing to worry your head about," said Hati who had re-entered the room, balancing a tray of steaming hot cups of tea and firewhiskey. "Drink up! This stuff will heat your bones all right."

George and Nox eagerly took the offered mugs.

Hati fell stiffly onto an armchair by the fire. "Hooks and fishtails! I don't know what you think you were doing around the mire. At this time of year, too! You boys should know better than that. Oh my word, Molly's going to go round the bend."

"Why? What happens round this time of year?" George enquired curiously.

"Well it gets hotter, doesn't it?"

George blinked. "Yes…"

Hati took a sip of her tea and rocked precariously on her half-chair. "The swamp gets warmer and water hags hate warm water. They prefer the cold and the damp, and they _hate_ humidity. So when the weather heats up, the mire's the last place you want to be because a hag with a temper – one that's worse than its usual foul mindedness – is a dangerous thing indeed. Still, it is curious that she attacked so many adults at once… Wizards, _too_…"

"Yeah, I thought old green-gums only went after the kiddies." Fred folded his arms across his chest and nodded at Nox. "Guess she must have mistaken you for one after all, Noxy." He grinned.

"Very funny." Nox wrapped the cloak that Hati had given her tighter around her shoulders. "I wonder if Jenny Greenteeth has anything to do with the sightings in the village."

"Not likely." Fred shook his head. "Hags don't often leave the swamps they inhabit. Even when they do, they don't go far. They need the marsh to survive, see."

"So that's why you're here," said Hati suddenly, smiling. "You're investigating our little water spirit at the shore. I didn't think you twins were just coming to relive old summer days gone by – ooh, sorry Fred."

Fred shook his head, chuckling while George nodded sagely: "Yeah, afraid we're here on business Batty, er, _Hati_…"

Nox nodded. "We got a phone call yesterday asking us to come down and check the shore out. There have been a few disturbances and sightings along there, though nobody could tell me of what exactly."

Hati put down her mug with a heavy sigh. "That's because most people that see _her_ don't live to tell the tale. I must have written dozens of letters to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but have I had one owl back? I think not! Of course, it's been all hands on deck for the past five years since the end of You-Know-Who, so an old witch like me can hardly complain," she said dolefully. "But the attacks are getting worse. Young Sammy Jessops just up an' disappeared in the wink of an eye the other week. Dragged his body out of the water not two miles down coast. And last month little Jemima Gobsbottom was swept away on a night just like this, where the sea was as calm as a pond."

The twins exchanged a glance with Nox, who then said, "But it's not just these attacks, is it?"

Hati locked gazes with Nox for a moment, then replied, "I s'pose you'll be meaning Flaversham Potts, then?"

Nox pulled her little red book from her coat pocket and flicked through the pages. "He's the village toymaker, right?"

"There's been complaints that the big beastie of Aber Duafe has been nicking all of Flaversham's toys," said Fred in mock creepy tone.

George stretched in front of the fire. "Instead of ending up on the shelves, they're washing in with the tide. That about right?"

"Flaversham hasn't complained in person yet," Fred added. "So we thought we'd see if you knew anything first, Batty, er, _Hati_."

There was a thoughtful silence. "Ay," said Hati slowly. "It's something like that."

Fred stroked his chin thoughtfully and grinned. "Interesting case. What do you think, Noxy? Fancy a few more twists and surprises?"

Nox shook her head stubbornly. "The last thing I need is another surprise."

"_EEEEYYAAAAAHHH!_"

The terrible high-pitched scream was followed by an even more terrible shriek as Nox dived off her place on the half-couch, clutching her pounding heart and breathing fast. She spun around to look at the awful thing that had jumped out from behind the couch to scare her witless. The twins were howling with laughter.

Standing on the couch was a small ghost boy with a silvery-white ghost dog running round and round his ankles with the occasional '_yip!_' The boy looked like a younger version of Fred, only his eyes were narrowed and scowling at Nox.

"What's a MUGGLE doing here, 'ati?" he demanded crossly. "And why can it see me?"

"Ran!" Hati hissed. "You know better than to scare our guests. And don't say Muggle in such a derisive tone! Not all Muggles are daft as brushes."

The ghost boy - Ran - climbed down from the couch and peered closely at Nox. "This one doesn't look that smart. It looks a bit like a carp with all that marsh weed in its hair." He stuck a cold finger in her face and smirked. "I bet it doesn't even know how to talk."

Nox bristled with anger. "Of course I know how to talk!"

The ghost boy looked thoroughly unimpressed. "It's a GIRL too!"

Fred was still laughing and wiping non-existent tears from his eyes. "Merlin, Hati, where'd you pick this one up? He's brilliant!"

"Does he come pocket-sized for our travelling convenience?" asked George keenly.

Hati stood up and moved towards Ran and his little yapping ghost dog, her warty hand hovering above his glowing head affectionately. "Fred, George, Nox; I'd like you to meet Ran and Fo." She smiled at them grimly. "They also happened upon an encounter with Jenny."

Fred, George and Nox peered closer at the two ghosts: sure enough, they could see the fleshy bits of skin on Ran's shimmering body, peeling or nibbled away by whatever lived in the darkest depths of the mire. There were bruises around Ran's neck and ankles where Jenny Greenteeth had once wrapped her deadly fingers and hauled him down in to the swamp.

"Ran haunts the old church yard here," Hati explained, "but he was getting a bit out of hand so the Ministry asked me to keep an eye on him. Poor old sausage was dragged and drowned in '53, and Fo here followed him – loyal dog to the end." The excitable ghost dog yipped and wheezed beside her.

"Why do they call you Ran?" Nox asked him.

"I don't talk to nosey girls," the boy grumbled resentfully. "And stop staring at me. It's rude to stare. Especially when you have a face that looks like a carp, Muggle-blood!"

"Oi, oi," said Fred, waving his hands in the air. "We know Nox isn't the most pleasant thing in the world to look at, but she doesn't look like a carp."

"Thank you, Fred," she said, shocked that he had stood up for her.

"She resembles a flat fish much more," Fred pointed out; ignoring the fiery looks he was now receiving from Nox.

Ran suddenly froze, switching to look between Fred and George with a keen look in his eye. "I don't believe it," he said breathlessly, barely able to contain his excitement. "You can't be! Blimey – you _are!_You're Fred and George Weasley, aren't you? I know all about you! You're my heroes – Hogwarts greatest pranksters!" He leaned eagerly towards Fred. "Hati told me all about Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, and how you drove Umbridge off her trolley, and how you died at the Hogwarts battle, and how you even helped Harry Potter defeat You-Know-Who!"

Fred and George exchanged a smile then nodded at Ran.

"No point in denying it," said Fred with a shrug.

"Yes, I'm afraid we're just that marvellous," George admitted, modestly.

Fred put on a formal pretentious voice, "Truly, it is an honour and a burden being the geniuses that we are." He leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head, a smug look on his face. "But study hard and maybe one day you'll be as magnificent as us."

Ran nodded his head furiously. "I will! And I'll make a great apprentice too; you watch!"

Fred nearly fell off his seat on the half-couch. "W-what?"

"You'll take me on, right? As your apprentice?"

Hati groaned. "Fred, don't you start encouraging him. I've only just got him to stop playing pranks on poor Mrs Harper and her cats," the old witch said crossly and waved a soupy ladle menacingly in Fred's silver face. Her half-a-cauldron was beginning to bubble over with something that smelled like sweaty socks and cabbage. "Now, dinner's nearly ready, dears. I expect you'll want to go down to the village tonight and have a look around after you get something to eat?"

"That's about the sum of it." George nodded, but Hati shook her head and glowered.

"Oh not you, George Weasley. You're staying put tonight," she raised the ladle again before he could protest. "Not unless you want me to let something slip to your mother about strolls around the mire with a Muggle in your charge. I'm sure Molly would be very interested to hear that not only did you put your life in danger, you put Nox in harms way too."

George rolled his eyes. "Always were a master of laying on the guilt trip, Hati."

"Don't worry, George, I've got it covered," said Fred and patted his fellow ghostling on the head. "My new apprentice in mischief and mayhem can show me about. Right, Ran?" Ran looked ecstatic and nodded his head eagerly.

The half-a-cauldron was beginning to boil over. Nox eyed its malodorous contents and abruptly stood up. "Good, that's sorted then. Only, why don't we leave now while it's still light?"

Fred grinned at her knowingly. "There's no rush, Nox. It doesn't get dark until tennish. We can wait 'til you've eaten."

"I'm not taking _her_ anywhere!" protested Ran, hotly. "Fleshies are nothing but trouble, 'specially when they're _girls_. Fred, do we really have to take her?"

Fred's eyes gleamed. "Two words, little novice: _live bait._"

"I think it would be better if we headed off now," said Nox in an innocent, casual sort of voice. "Early bird gets the worm and all that."

"Right you are then, I'll get you some clothes to wear, Nox love. You can't very well go strutting into town wearing sodden clothes. Imagine the embarassment!" said Hati, leaving the ladle in the bubbling stew, which quickly dissolved the wooden appliance. "I suggest you go into the Hanging Dog Inn down by the sea wall," Hati was saying from the adjoining bedroom. "There's a bunch of good sorts there and I'd wager that every piece of gossip and information in this town passes through that pub sooner or later."

Nox smiled gratefully as the old woman returned with a bundle of clothes. "Thanks Hati. That's our starting point then."

"Good, good: Now try these on and see how they fit."

She took the pile of clothes from the old woman, letting a long, brightly-coloured velvet cloak fall to the floor. The outfit looked like it belonged on a sales rack in a vintage sixties hippie shop. Nox forced another smile at Hati and thanked her for her kindness. Ran and the twins broke into identical wicked grins.

"Why Nox, they're just your colours, too. Every single one of them!" Fred exclaimed, in a happily surprised tone. "Can't wait to see what the local Muggles think of you in this. Oh look, George! Boots to match!"

"Happy days, Fred!"

Nox felt her smile begin to crack.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** Bah, I hate swamp hags. Jenny Greenteeth is actually a Yorkshire myth, but I thought she fitted in here quite well. Look up some pics of her on google, she's bloody terrifying! Anyways, to those looking for more Fred x Nox romantic stuff, you'll find it in the next chapter (grin) - and of course, Luna is going to descend on them too... poor Looney, they completely forgot about her : ( 

**Edit:** I just found out that Dumbledore was gay! Damn, you old hound! He kept that one quiet LOL x


	10. Casebook 02: The Lighthouse

**A/N:** GREAT FLAMING BALLS! I just received my Twin Vice fanart commission from **The-Gwyllion** on deviantart . com (www . the-gwyllion . deviantart . com, without the spaces). It's so amazing, I absolutely love it - Nox and the twins look so cool! I don't know when it will be up on devi, but when it is I'll put a link to it up on my profile.

I'm trying my best to get these chapters out on a weekly basis, but that's proving pretty impossible (I'm such a slow writer! argh argh).Cheers for all the fab support so far - as promise, there's a bit more FredxNox shippyness in this chapter and Luna makes her, er, second entrance. Oh, by the way, the Bellrock Lighthouse is a real lighthouse just off the east coast of Scotland. I can see it from my uni - it's so bloody spooky, look it up!

* * *

_Rhiannon rings like a bell throu the night  
And wouldnt you love to love her  
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight  
And who will be her lover_

- Fleetwood Mac

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**The Lighthouse

**oOo **

It was moments like these that Fred did not regret his ghostly existence one bit. The pub was heaving with people; tourists and locals alike. He drifted through the door, followed closely by his new apprentice and Nox (who had already made a scene by attempting to walk through the door after them), periodically glancing from one table to another.

"My, my – a house full of daft Muggles." A dark smile spread itself across Fred's features. "What choice rewards for a lifetime of service to prankdom," he said gleefully, rubbing his hands together.

"Don't be a sod, Fred," Nox scolded, close to his ear. "And don't get in my way or I'll have you exorcised," she warned him, walking further into the pub towards the bar.

However, Fred's arrogant smirk was not deterred. "You're almost cute when you're testy!" he called to her over the din of music and laughter, but only earned a look that clearly stated 'do _not_ flirt with me'.

Stepping into the Hanging Dog Inn was a bit like stepping back in time. It was a big room with several windows facing out onto the sea wall, and the pebble-stone beach and sea beyond it. The floor was tiled with large irregular stone slabs and a disused cartwheel had been converted into a hanging candelabrum. A number of lit candles had been secured to the cartwheel's wooden beams and were flickering dimly in a cloud of thick, grey smoke. It easily reminded Fred of the Leaky Cauldron. But most of all, he was enjoying the wide-eyed looks Nox was receiving in her multi-coloured patchwork cloak with shining brass buttons.

"Ah, so you're part of the voodoo squad, ay?" A rosy-cheeked bartender greeted Nox with a cheerful grin. "We've been waiting all evening for you!"

"We had a bit of trouble on the way down," Nox told the bartender embarrassedly, pulling the neck of her cloak closer together (Fred didn't know why she bothered – it wasn't like she had much to put on show).

The bartender, a young woman with bright green eyes and dark wavy hair, was nodding her head in understanding. "I hear you were in the post van this morning when it broke down." She smiled and winked. "Everything comes through this pub sooner or later. I thought there'd be more than just yourself, mind. You travel in all alone all the way from London?"

"No, but my partner's a little… he's a bit ill-inclined at the moment," Nox said, carefully. "He fell into the mire on the way over here."

"Dragged down by old Haggy is more like it," Fred told a wide-eyed Ran, who ooh-ed and ahh-ed as Fred launched into an epic battle with Jenny Greenteeth, a good portion of which was utter fabrication.

The bartender's hand flew up to her shiny black hair and she gasped, "Fell into the mire! Goodness, gracious me! Is he alright?"

Nox seemed to have hooked the entire pub's attention: everyone was suddenly muttering and mumbling, and staring in wonder at the girl in the multi-coloured witch's cloak. Fred leaned against a table between two men who Nox had distracted from a game of chess, and quickly switched a couple of pieces, much to Ran's delight.

"I think you've finally got their attention, Nox," said Fred mockingly. "I suppose walking into a door wearing an outfit spun by colour-blind leprechauns just isn't enough for the folks round here."

Nox glowered at him over her shoulder then continued her conversation with the bartender. "He's alright, just swallowed a bit too much marsh water, that's all. A night's rest will do him good," she assured the amazed bartender. "He's staying up on the edge of the wood."

"That'll be with batty old Hati, I take it? Well, she's sure to treat him well. Pity though, I had beds prepared for you upstairs. Are you sure that's all that happened, mind?" The woman asked a little suspiciously. "No one goes near that place anymore. Not even the kids in the area. We call it a bad spot, if you know what I mean."

"Really?" Nox asked, keeping her voice as casual sounding as possible while she sipped her coke. "Why's that?"

The bartender stared at Nox vaguely, then her face cleared and she said, "No matter! That'd be another case for you entirely. No, I think you're here for the Loathly Woman, that about right?"

"So that's what they're calling her," said Fred at Nox's shoulder. "Good and spooky, that. Works a treat alongside nasty old Jenny Greenteeth."

Nox ignored Fred's cold, ghostly body leaning beside her and nodded at the bartender. "Yes, I saw your advertisement on the town's website."

"The village council wanted paranormal detectives in to up the tourist rates. Sorry to tell you this, but they plan to make a big deal out of this water sprite, or ghost, or whatever they hope it might be. I think they fancy the village getting a spot on Britain's Most Haunted." She hesitated. "But I feel I should warn you, the whole thing's very likely a practical joke. This area's rife with folklore and old legends. Few of them are true."

"Actually, most of them are true," chuckled Fred as he helped an unsuspecting pub patron cheat at rummy. "But the Ministry covers most of 'em up, usually with a good Confundus charm or two. And you've seen them in the works, Noxy." He grinned.

Nox looked like she wanted to laugh, but somehow managed to maintain a straight face. "Well, I suppose it's my business to decide which folk legends are the fakes and which are genuine."

"Utter codswallop, the lot of it!" A big man was coming up the stairs in the floor from the cellar, shaking his head irritably. "Nothing but tripe. You're wasting your bloody time messing around here looking for ghosts and goblins, and whatever it is you ruddy university students squander your bleeding time on. Here's a tip, girl: go out and get yourself a real job."

"Who's this fat-necked git think he is?" Fred clenched his fists, wanting very badly to clock the man across the skull.

"Padrig!" the bartender shouted angrily. "That's no way to treat guests. You'll be running my customers out the door with a pitchfork next!" The man only rolled his eyes and grumbled at her. She turned back to Nox looking flustered and embarrassed. "I'm sorry, my cousin hasn't much of a temper for anything."

But Nox only shook her head and smiled. "No problem. You hear that a lot when you spend your life chasing ghosts."

The woman grinned and put her hand out towards her. "I'm Owena, by the by; Owena Potts."

"Potts?" Both Fred and Nox repeated, exchanging a glance, though the bartender could only hear one voice.

Suddenly, Fred noticed a large pair of round green eyes peering around the bar and watching the conversation with the type of keen interest only a child could muster. The little Muggle girl's eyes were ranging over Fred where he stood beside the table, around which a group of young men were patiently stacking a deck of playing cards into a pyramid. Ran was beneath the table, his silvery-white and semi-transparent hands wrapping around one table-leg, waiting for Fred's signal to move. Fred winked and waved at the girl, who ducked shyly back behind the bar.

"You're not related to Flaversham Potts, are you?" Nox asked eagerly.

"Yes," Owena replied tentatively. "He's my father. He lives up in the old Bellrock Lighthouse on the horn of the bay. Those lighthouses are all automated nowadays; it took my dad two years to convince the folk on the council to keep him running it for free. They let him on, of course - they had to! He's a bit of a tourist attraction himself round these parts and the children love him. Even kept an old donkey back in the day and took her out on the beach for the kids in summertime. Remember that, Padrig?"

"He's bonkers," the man answered gruffly, heaving a case of wine onto the bar top. "You won't get anything out of him 'cept gibberish."

"It's Alzheimer's, Padrig," said Owena nervously. "It's not like he can help it."

"Well," Nox put in, "if he's the watchman round here, he might have some more information on sightings of this Loathly Woman or the recent disappearances."

"Look here," said Padrig bitterly. "I served Sam Jessops the night he drowned. There's no mystery in it. He was drunk as a fish."

Nox narrowed her eyes at the man; Fred could tell she, like him, had taken an almost instant dislike to Padrig.

"Perhaps if you hadn't supplied him with so much liquor he would have been around to tell us himself what really happened that night," Nox replied, bitingly.

After a brief, uncomfortable moment, Owena, and a couple of the customers standing at the bar, burst into peels of laughter while Padrig disappeared back into the kitchens, looking angry and red-faced.

"That's put him in his place," Owena told her. "Nobody ever speaks to him like that. Except my dad, of course, but they don't talk now. Some big row they had years ago."

Nox smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, I get a bit blunt like that sometimes and my mouth runs away with me," she said, her cheeks turning colour to match several of the patches on her cloak. "I just don't think people should speak ill of the dead. But I spoke out of line. If you don't mind, could you apologise to him for me?"

Owena simply smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The last two cards were being placed atop the tall pyramid. Fred made a quick signal to Ran who was still squatted under the table. The table shifted and the men around it were in uproar as the entire pyramid deck toppled to the floor amidst a grinning ghost boy, cackling with glee. Fred caught Nox's eye and simply shrugged.

"We had to find some way to entertain ourselves," he said with an innocent expression. Nox only rolled her eyes at the ghostly practical jokers and turned back to Owena.

The little green-eyed Muggle girl was peering around the bar again. This time Ran caught sight of her and Fred watched bewilderedly as the boy scrambled behind his legs.

"Oi, Mugglehead, let's go!" Ran hissed at Nox.

"Not yet," she whispered back under the guise of sipping her coke.

"No, Mugglehead, NOW!"

Nox shot a warning glance at Fred who groaned - he hated playing babysitter. He turned and picked his new apprentice up by the scruff of his neck, and said cheerfully, "Come on mate, let's see if we can't wake the old geezer snoring in the corner."

"Can I get you another drink, luv?" Owena was asking.

Nox spluttered into her drink, keeping a watchful eye on the ghosts sneaking closer and closer to a grizzled old man sleeping beside the fireplace. "Actually, we'd better get out of your hair now," she answered hurriedly.

"We?" Owena enquired, looking puzzled.

Nox flinched at her mistake. "Er, sorry, force of habit. I was thinking about my partner. Do you know if your father's in at the moment? Only I'd like to speak to him briefly."

Owena looked very nervous again. "I'm not so sure that you'll get any sense out of him tonight… but I suppose it's worth a try. If my girl, Morwen, was around I'd get her to go with you. She's really the only one Dad'll talk to now."

Nox climbed down off her stool, nearly tripping on the tails of her long cloak. "No problem, I'm sure we'll - _I'll_ manage."

"Pity," said Fred, hovering over the old man who was still snoring soundly. "We were just starting to have fun."

**oOo**

Outside, the tide was creeping in and the surface of the water shimmered with the last rays of the setting sun. A light drizzle of salty rain was trickling down from a growing bank of cloud rolling over from the Fort Hills.

"Blimey, that was boring! Being a fleshy is completely overrated. All they ever do is sit and drink pints, or smoke those funny-looking sticks and talk about the weather," said Ran, running along the old stone sea wall beside Fred and Nox. "Where are we going now? I haven't been down here in years. Can we go down to the water front?"

"You can bog off home as far as I'm concerned," said Nox stiffly and began striding down the sloping hill towards the rocky alcove linking the lighthouse to the mainland. "And you can take Fred with you."

Fred grinned smugly at her. "Noxy, I do believe you're attempting to get rid of me again. What was that you were saying in the pub?" he said teasingly and sauntered in front of her so that they were face to face, while he drifted through the air backwards. "'_People shouldn't speak ill of the dead'_, wasn't it? Funny, that - you speak ill of me all the time. What was it you called me the other day? A 'fickle, foolish, freckle-faced, toe-rag.'"

Nox turned a little pink but lifted her head nonetheless and said plainly, "That's different. I'm willing to bet my right arm most other ghosts aren't such massive pains in the arse."

Just then, a clod of mud and wet seaweed smacked into the side of her head with a slippery_squelch._ Nox stopped to scoop the stinking gunge from her hair and glared at a near hysterical Ran who was pointing and laughing uproariously. She couldn't understand how people could possibly be deaf to that racket.

Fred was smiling at her serenely and faintly mocking. "Serves you right for being a bloody cheeky Muggle," he drawled unremorsefully and jabbed his thumb at Ran. "You forgot I've got back-up now."

"So I see." Nox tried to prise a piece of seaweed caught up in her messy hair, but soon gave up.

"Why do you put up with her, Fred? _Stupid_ Muggle," Ran muttered spitefully. He had floated down from the sea wall and was now eyeing Nox contemptuously. The corner of Fred's mouth quirked and he made sure to catch Nox's eye, his own eyes twinkling humorously.

"We're _involved_."

Nox turned her head from him sharply. "I should involve my foot with your face."

"Do you have to bring those massive things into every conversation?" said Fred rolling his eyes.

Nox carried on down the slope, waving her hand behind her head at him, and retorted, "You're the one who's constantly taking such a keen interest in my feet, Fred."

Fred crossed his arms and tossed his head arrogantly. "Bloody women."

Beside him, Ran was copying his movements, folding his arms and snorting indignantly. "I'd never let a Muggle talk to me like that – much less a _girl_."

"Wait! Wait!"

A small girl was calling them, running along the side of the sea wall from the direction of the Hanging Dog Inn, her wheat-coloured hair sticking to her face in the light drizzle. She was no older than Ran appeared and Fred instantly recognised her as the green-eyed girl who had spotted them from behind the bar.

Having heard the calls, Nox paused on her descent towards the Bellrock Lighthouse and waited curiously on the slope. The little girl skidded to a halt in front of her, panting and tugging the hair out of her eyes and mouth.

"Are you the detective come to look for water witch?" she asked impatiently.

Nox nodded her head awkwardly. "Yes, I am…"

Fred, who had floated up beside Nox, was making as though to elbow her in the ribs. "I think you've got a fan."

"And you're going to see the toymaker, Flaversham?" the girl asked keenly, stepping closer. Again, Nox nodded. "Here!" The girl thrust a packet of salt and vinegar crisps into her hand.

Nox wasn't exactly sure how to react to this gesture, so she smiled sheepishly and muttered a thank you, but the girl began to giggle.

"No, they're not for you!" she laughed into her hand. "They're for my granddad. They're his favourites."

"Ah, right. I'll make sure he gets them." Nox smiled kindly and dropped the packet of crisps into her pocket. "You must be Morwen then. You're mum was telling me that you and your granddad get along pretty well. We, er…_I_ was just on my way up to the lighthouse to see him."

Morwen gave Nox a long steady look, her youthful green eyes studying the detective very carefully. At last the small girl grinned and said, with an excitable glint in her eye, "You can see them _too_, can't you?"

Nox froze to her spot. "W-what? See who?" she stammered in a very unconvincing tone of voice that made Fred groan despairingly.

"I watched you come into the pub with them and I could see the tall one chatting to you by the bar." Morwen leaned up to Nox and said in a whisper, one eye on Fred's semi-transparent body, "I think he might _fancy_ you."

Fred quirked his mouth, looking thoroughly repulsed, while Ran, on the other hand, appeared positively livid, but refused to move from his hiding spot behind Fred's legs.

Nox, who had been leaning down to the little girl, raised herself back up to her full height and propped her hands on her waist, smiling. "Sadly not," she answered, trying not to laugh. "The only person Fred fancies is himself."

"It's hard not to – I'm such a handsome devil," Fred retorted, with little less humility than an Arabian prince could show.

Morwen took a tentative step back from Fred's silver, shimmering body. "You really _are_ a ghost," she stated, breathlessly.

"Guilty as charged." Fred leaned back and began scratching his chin thoughtfully. At last he asked her curiously, "You're a bit old to be seeing ghosts, aren't you?"

"I'm six and a half in two months," Morwen told him, holding her fingers up and beaming proudly. She bent around him to catch a glimpse of Ran who was squatted on the ground and twiddling his thumbs with an angry look on his face. Morwen turned pink and her cheeks puffed up in her sudden irritation.

With an angry stomp, she twirled around. "I've got to go back for my tea. Tell _him_ thank you, if he'll listen." Morwen's ears were tinged with red as she bolted back up the sloping hill and along the sea wall to the glowing Hanging Dog Inn.

"What was all that about, I wonder?" muttered Nox bemusedly.

"Haven't a clue." Fred pocketed his hands and aimed a light kick in the direction of Ran's bottom. "Oi, what did you do to her, you little git?" he asked suspiciously. "Come on, own up!"

"I didn't do anything!" Ran protested loudly and began steadily backing away. He was looking increasingly more nervous. "Look, it's nearly nine o'clock and I've got to be at the church before the bell tolls." Ran was crab-walking further and further away from them. "I'll see you back at Hati's then – 'night!"

Before Fred could protest, the ghost boy was swooping away back towards the town, leaving him looking bewildered. "Something fishy's going on," he muttered, running a hand through his messy, silver hair.

"Never mind that," said Nox quickly, holding up the packet of salt and vinegar crisps. "Let's just get up to this lighthouse. At least now we have something to barter with if Flaversham doesn't feel inclined to chat."

The Bellrock Lighthouse was an immense, solitary structure. Around the base, the white painted stonework was stained black and green where the sea had lashed continuously over a period of two hundred years or more. Nox shivered inadvertently; the overall impression the Bellrock Lighthouse gave was that of a tall, human leg bone, standing solemn at the tip of the horn, and surrounded by sharp, treacherous-looking rocks.

She swallowed thickly and rapped her knuckles on the large iron door. For a while it seemed like no one was going to answer. Then, at last, the door creaked open an inch and a pair of sharp eyes gleamed out of the darkness. "Who's there?" a gruff, thickly accented voice grumbled. "If you're tourists, ah don't want nought t' do with yeh!"

"I'm not a tourist!" Nox spluttered in a rush. "I'm a detective – er, a _paranormal_ one!"

"I don't speak to detectives neither!" shouted the man.

"But I've brought crisps!" Nox held the bag of salt and vinegar crisps up to the crack but the door was already being slammed in her face.

Fred was chuckling. "You – you brought crisps? You – brought – crisps?" Fred threw his head back and cackled with laughter. "You brought crisps!" he repeated again, buckling over and clutching his stomach. "Ah - you really had him hooked with your impressive negotiatory skills, Nox! _CRISPS!_"

Nox hunched her shoulders and frowned at him. "It's not that funny." She turned to walk back across the rocks towards the shore.

Fred stopped laughing at once and watched her leave, his mouth falling open in his surprise. "Oi, you ain't giving up already are you? I thought you were a stubborn-headed Muggle – or was I just giving you more credit than you deserve?"

She turned her head and grinned, wolfishly. "Just follow me. I've got a plan."

**oOo**

"Is it still hurting, dear?"

"Oh, yes; terrible pain, just terrible." George stretched himself out on the comfy half-couch by the fire and pulled the blankets up around his chin. Hati had placed a mug of steaming hot chocolate beside him, on a stool balancing on two legs. "Think I'll be out of the works tomorrow as well. Pity, really," he said with an exaggerated wince then reached for the mug, a greedy look on his face.

Hati raised a bushy eyebrow then chuckled, shaking her head from side to side with a click of her tongue. "You Weasleys never change. I remember your father wasn't much different when he was a lad, always running around with that barmy Xenophilius Lovegood and skinny little Edward. Fattened up, did Edward, of course – what a fine Squib he was. Arthur must have been heartbroken when he…" Hati met George's eyes and trailed off. She took a sip from her own mug. "Well, the war was hard on all of us."

"Don't tell Nox, Hati." George pushed himself up on his elbows. "Not a bloomin' word, alright?" His eyes were clear and serious, suddenly very different from Fred's. George was well aware of the differences that separated himself from his twin – they were necessary differences, he supposed. Where Fred was rash and sometimes too arrogant for his own good, George was a bit more cautious and sensitive if a situation called for it, which was why he knew better than to go dumping bad news on Nox.

"Edward functioned as one of the top liaisons officers between our world and the Muggle world. He had a lot of enemies, George, you know that."

"We don't know if he's dead or not if that's what you're starting on about," George told her hotly. "Ed didn't want Nox in our world, so we shouldn't go poking our noses into hers. The less she knows about all of us, the better."

Hati raised her eyebrows in a look of deep scepticism. "I don't know why it is, exactly, that you're helping Nox with this business of hers, but if you think you can work this closely and not form any attachment, you're up a gum-tree." She patted the empty space on the seat beside her, beckoning to the little ghost dog, Fo, who chased his tail for several turns before leaping excitably up beside her. George felt Hati fix him with that horrible stare – the one that always made him feel a twinge of guilt. It had never worked on Fred, he remembered with a grumble.

"Fred seems to get along with Nox quite well," Hati commented after a while, a sly look in her old eyes.

"Bloody hell, don't you start on at that, too!" George groaned. "Look, Fred's just like that. He'd flirt with a tree stump if it had a pair of knock – er," he coughed, embarrassedly. "Besides, we've got no time for that…"

Hati only nodded, but the unconvinced look on her old face turned George's expression mulish. He suddenly felt very angry at the old woman for poking her crooked nose into their private business. However, before he could tell Hati where she could shove her crooked hat, there was a short knock on the door.

"That must be Fred and Nox now." Hati got stiffly to her knees and went to open the door. "Don't know why they're knocking, mind." She pushed up the latch and smiled kindly, ready to greet George's twin and detective back through the door, but instead found the oddest pair standing on the little garden path.

A tall, pale man, dressed entirely in black, stood beside a slender girl, with long, dirty blonde hair. They stared back at Hati through two sets of the most peculiar eyes, the tall man's narrow, purple and appraising, while the girl's were misty, distant, with a look of perpetual shock about them.

Fo was suddenly at Hati's feet, growling and snarling viciously at the new arrivals. The Irishman, however, didn't appear to take any notice of it.

"Upon my word," said the old witch, raising her fingertips to her mouth. "It isn't little Luna Lovegood is it? My how you've grown, pet! And who is your friend?"

George practically toppled out of his place on the half-couch. His shoulder banged painfully against a table as he scrambled towards the door, darting quickly in front of Hati.

"Luna! Caithion!" George cried. "Blimey, what the bugger are you two doing here?"

"Sorry, have we come at a bad time?" said Caithion, his languid Irish tones dripping with sarcasm, and made a gesture with his head. George followed the man's eyes down and realised he was standing in nothing but his boxers. To his horror, and sickening embarrassment, he saw that Luna had followed his gaze too, a curious look on her young face.

George turned his head between the strange pair on the doorstep and Hati's old crooked face, then back again. "There's a perfectly good explanation for this," he said numbly.

"Yes, of course there is," answered Luna to his surprise. "You've been bitten by a swamp hag."

George goggled at her. "How'd you know that?"

Luna shrugged her slim shoulders. "It's very simple really. You have Docs leaf and honey-root smeared all over your shoulder – two substances often used to draw out weaker poisons. Also, you're not wearing any clothes," she said plainly and pointed at his naked chest, "and you've got a fire lit even though it's high summer, so obviously you must have gotten soaked earlier in the day. Your ankle's swollen, too." Luna smiled at him vaguely. "The woods in this area are also quite famous for harbouring the hag Jenny Greenteeth."

George, who had quite forgotten his semi-naked state, could only shake his head in wonder. "You're bloomin' marvellous sometimes, Luna."

A very faint blush crossed Luna's cheeks and she looked incredibly happy, if not a little bemused, by his flattery. "Thank you, George."

"As touching as this is, I think I'll rent a room down in the village," said Caithion in his usual, indifferent tone. "Afraid this isn't half of what I'm used to. You may come for me tomorrow." And with that, he turned his tall back on the cottage and began walking down the sloping track towards the main road, flicking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it in one fluid movement.

George looked at a puzzled Hati in shock. "Did he just make a joke?" he asked frowning.

Luna grinned and answered, "Yes."

George watched as she stepped across the threshold lightly, and swept into the room in her poke-a-dotted plastic overalls and brightly coloured fisherman's hat. Her long hair was mussed and frizzy, as if she had been sitting in the rain for hours.

"I didn't know there would be more of you coming, George," Hati whispered to him on the doorstep, "otherwise I would have conjured up a couple more beds. It's going to be a tight squeeze tonight."

"Don't look at me," said George defensively. "_I_ didn't invite her." He closed the front door and walked back into the main sitting room, quickly covering his nakedness up with the cover lying on the half-couch. "Er – Luna, not that it's not a pleasure to see you and everything, but _why_ are you here?"

Luna waited while Hati summoned a two-legged chair which hobbled across the floor towards her, and sat down neatly. In her hands she was clutching the same clipboard George had briefly flicked through the day before.

"Ah," he said, remembering their brief conversation. '_Damn, Fred.'_

"I'm afraid I missed you this morning before you left," Luna apologised.

"That wasn't hard – we left at nine in the morning," George muttered under his breath.

"I'm positive it was my fault," Luna continued. "I must have got the wrong time for our appointment. But your secretary was kind enough to bring me on the Muggle transport here. He even paid my way and gave me the change." She lifted up a green crinkled pound note, waving it about in front of her face as if she expected it to do something interesting.

George smiled guiltily. He had of course completely forgotten about his appointment with Luna. Just then something occurred to him and he sat up alarmed, asking, "Luna, you do know Caithion's a Muggle don't you?"

Luna observed him for a moment, a curious look in her wide eyes. Finally, she smiled placidly and replied, "Of course he is."

George sighed with relief and took the clipboard from her. He began skimming through the pages with a careful eye and after a while he turned back to her and said, "Gotta admit, I like what you're offering, Lunakins, but are you sure you can find some of these things? I mean, I ain't ever heard of a Ghillie Dhu and isn't the phooka extinct?"

"Nearly everyone thought that the Knockers were extinct, but I found a whole crowd of them in Chaw Gulley," Luna told him excitably. "They're generally pleasant enough goblins, but the tinner's mine where I happened upon them was fiercely guarded." She lifted up her forearm where a large pink scar cut across from her elbow to her thumb. "It was a misunderstanding, of course. They were only protecting the veins of tin and gold there."

Hati shook her head and 'tsked' loudly, while George whistled impressively. Despite her oddities, he had to admire Luna's bravery.

"Alright then." George handed her back the clipboard with a satisfied smile. "You're on. We'll back you."

"Really? Oh, thank you! Thank you so much," Luna said gleefully, and jumped to her feet. For a minute George thought she might hug him – the idea of Luna hugging him while he was dressed in nothing more than his boxers and a thin cover made him very uncomfortable (she was, after all, the same age as his sister). Instead, she made an awkward grab for his hand and vigorously thrust it up and down.

"Right then!" George pulled his aching arm out of Luna's grip, who had seemed quite content to shake it for the remainder of the night. "I'll let you on your way. You can Apparate out of here, right?" he asked Hati who nodded affirmative.

"Actually, I was thinking about staying for a few days. The Welsh coast side is full of magical creatures and faerie rings, and I should really start working right away." George was flapping his hands in front of her face in earnest, but Luna had already turned to Hati, questioningly. "As long as it's okay with you."

Behind Luna, George shook his head furiously at the old witch and made a cutting motion across his throat. But Hati only ignored him and smiled sweetly at Luna.

"Of course, my dear," she said, with her eyes sparkling at George. "Stay as long as you like."

**oOo**

"Tell me again why we're out here sitting in the dark and staring at the sea?" Fred grumbled, leaning into his cupped hand.

"Nearly every morning Flaversham's toys wash in with the tide. We need to know who's throwing them into the water in the first place," Nox explained to the glowing ghost sitting on the sea wall beside her. "It might very well be Flaversham himself."

"Right. So basically we're spying on an innocent little old man," said Fred bluntly. "That and you've nicked his crisps."

"I was starving," protested Nox, licking the remaining crumbs from her fingers. "I haven't had anything to eat all day. Besides, it's his own fault that he missed out, slamming the door in my face like that. That's hardly what I'd call innocent."

Fred snorted with derisive laughter. "Hmm, you know I bet that's what happened to the poor sod that drowned the other week – Flaversham drowned him for nicking his salted snacks. Case closed!" He eyed the slight figure of Nox beside him and smirked. Her dark thick hair was sticking up at all angles and her floppy fringe was plastered to her forehead after the previous drizzle of rain. There was still mud on her face from where Ran had thrown the clod at her, and she was chewing on her lip anxiously, her eyes never leaving the flashing Bellrock Lighthouse for a second. Nox wasn't what Fred would call attractive, but he found her scatty, yet determined, nature, intriguing; likeable, even.

"Half that packet of crisps is down your front by the way," he said, observing the sprinkling of crumbs across her patchwork cloak. "If you want I'm sure I can get them for you." He grinned, already raising a semi-transparent hand.

"No thanks, I've got it." Nox brushed the crumbs off her chest, ignoring his flirtatious advances completely.

Fred felt deflated. "Blimey, you wouldn't notice a bus if it hit you. It's no fun flirting with you, Nox, you're too indifferent."

"There's an easy answer to that – don't do it."

"Ah, perish the thought _mon __chérie_. A man should never squander his natural gift, even if he is six feet under," said Fred in an exaggerated humble tone. "But I guess it is a waste of my talents bothering to charm you any."

Nox blinked rapidly at him then asked, "Were you dropped on your head as a child?"

Fred glared her. "I just decided I don't like you," he said shortly.

"I just decided I don't care," she replied, apathetic, and resumed her steady vigil on the lighthouse. Rolling his eyes, Fred turned the other way.

They had been sitting on a shadowy section of the stone sea wall for almost two hours now. The tide was in and the sun had long since set below the horizon. Upbeat folk music and loud, bellowing voices were blaring from the Hanging Dog Inn. There must have been a band hired especially for the high season tourists, because somebody had started drumming along to an accordion and a fiddle.

Fred was lying along the wall, his arms and legs dangling over either side. There had been no movement from the lighthouse since Flaversham had slammed the door in Nox's face.

"Well, this is boring," he muttered. "Didn't anyone in this bloody town stop to think that there might be some longwinded romantic reason for Potts to start trashing the ocean with his toys?"

"Romance?" Nox frowned. "What do you mean?"

Fred arched his eyebrows at her in disbelief. "Merlin's beard, how sheltered have you been?"

"I know what romance is, Fred, I just don't know see how it can relate to a grumpy old man or a case where people have been dragged into the sea and drowned."

Fred looked beaten. "Well no, when you put it like that. Bloody hell; use your imagination a bit."

"I don't deal in romance. I deal in cold hard reality," she said, waving her hand dispassionately. "It's much less complex."

"And it's much more boring."

Nox looked at him askance. "I wouldn't have pegged you for being a romantic anyway. I thought you were much more… rough and tumble."

Fred laughed and crossed his arms behind his head. "Admittedly, no, I'm not much of a romantic. But my hearts' not made out of an old fisherman's boot either... Least it wasn't when I had one."

Nox pulled her skinny knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. "I'm not that tough. It's just that I like to focus on what's directly in front of me. I'm just so scatterbrained that it's the only way I can work successfully. Not like my dad; he's brilliant. Sometimes I'd find him working on ten different cases at once. It never mattered how difficult a job was, he'd always solve it one way or another." She smiled sadly. "There was a lot dad said he couldn't tell me about those cases – said he was respecting people's privacy and all that, but I guess that was a giant fib, ay? All that time he was probably fishing out ghosts like you." Nox stopped and grimaced at him. "Oh, sorry Fred. Guess that wasn't very –"

"Don't apologise," Fred interrupted and flashed Nox an easy-looking smile. "I like that you don't pity me. Believe me, I get enough of it. Every time Mum sees me, she bursts into tears."

She shot him a sardonic smile. "So, you like me again."

"Yeah, you're alright. For a bookworm, I mean." Fred grinned and plopped an icy cold hand on her head, watching with great amusement as she winced at his touch.

"I'm only a bookworm in comparison to you," she replied with a stern tone, but returned his smile. She swung her legs back over the wall's edge. "To be honest, I kind of like having you two around. I've never had that many friends before."

Fred smirked. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Thanks."

"Well, it's true – you're so wrapped up in your own world, full of books and work, and worrying about your dad."

Nox bristled with anger. "I'm not worrying about him."

"I don't believe that," said Fred, seriously. "I think you've been breaking your heart over him the past few years."

Nox quickly turned her head away from him, looking choked, and flicked a pebble off the sea wall and into the still water lapping below her. They watched as it broke the stillness with a satisfying plop.

"That's neither here nor there," she said at last.

"Neither am I," Fred quipped and laughed gently.

Just then the lighthouse door creaked open and the bent figure of Flaversham Potts crept out over the rocks and down onto the remaining strip of beach on the opposite side of the alcove from where Fred and Nox were sitting.

"Doesn't look like he's dragging a trunk of toys behind him, does it?" Fred remarked dryly.

"No, it doesn't," Nox admitted, looking discouraged.

"But if he isn't, then who is?"

"Maybe my hunch was wrong and the whole thing's not related at all."

Fred watched Flaversham disappear into the darkness. It appeared as though he was cutting across the beach towards the pub. Fred drifted off the wall and signalled to her to follow. "Alright then, there's one way to find out."

"What?" she asked him confusedly.

"Come on, we're detectives aren't we? So let's have a poke about. Look, he's left the door open for you and everything," said Fred, an eager, cunning grin on his face.

Nox stood uncertainly. "But if we get caught –"

Fred wagged a finger in her face, leering wickedly. "Correction – if _you_ get caught. Question is: have you got enough nerve?"

Nox smirked and answered, "Bagfuls. Okay then, lead the way. But we'd better be quick. The last thing I need is to get caught. You know that police officer Thickley was calling up the other day – I bet he'd love to peg something on me and George after we humiliated him at Rosewood."

"Here's the first rule of sneaking – don't get caught," said Fred. "And if you do... well, you can worry about that after."

Nox ran back along the rocks towards the lighthouse, Fred drifting fast in front of her, and squeezed through the narrow space in the door Flaversham had left open. Inside, the tower was pitch black and smelled of fish and dampness. They stood for a moment listening. The lighthouse was quiet except for the echoes of Nox's footsteps and a faint sound of dripping water.

"Think I'm the only ghost in here, Noxy," said Fred at last, beaming at her. "Come on – let's have a look upstairs."

Nox looked warily at the curving stone steps rising into darkness, but conceded to follow Fred up to the second floor, keeping one hand on the smooth stone wall. The first floor they came to obviously functioned as Flaversham's workshop. The place reminded Fred of a Santa's grotto. All around the place were toys of all shapes, colours and sizes, each one a handcrafted work of art. There was a beautiful old rocking-horse in one corner beside a splintered window and across from that sat a jack-in-the box, its grinning clown swaying back and forward. One shelf was dedicated entirely to rosy-cheeks dolls with sprightly golden curls, while another was lined with toy soldiers holding pistols that shot marbles, and tall red-coated nutcrackers.

"It's no wonder that Flaversham's a local celebrity," said Nox breathlessly. "These are incredible. Look at all the detail!"

Fred peered at the toy soldiers, entirely unimpressed. "They're not up to much, though, are they? Don't they move or fight or anything?"

"No, you pick them up and move them about yourself." Fred shot her a look of confusion. "You use your _imagination_," she stressed.

Fred quirked an eyebrow then sighed, very amused. "Good ol' Muggles – so quaint, amusing themselves with immobile dolls and tricks."

Nox was giving him a pained look when a bump upstairs suddenly made her start beside him. Fred shot her an odd look, but she whispered urgently, "Didn't you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Just listen!"

Above them, something was moving. It stirred slowly at first, a gradual inhuman slithering across the floor. It sounded as if someone was mopping upstairs.

Nox turned to Fred and he nodded on queue. "I'll take a look." He floated up through the ceiling and into the topmost room in the tower.

Fred was almost immediately blinded by the rotating lamp, which flooded the room with dazzling white light. When it disappeared again, the room seemed unnaturally dark, but Fred could immediately see that, aside from a dipping camp-bed along the curving window, it was completely empty.

"Come up Nox, there's no one here!" he said, poking his head back through the floor. She nodded and began too climb the remaining stairs.

Fred glided across the floor to look out the window that stretched all around the circular room. He paused. For a brief moment he thought he had seen water trickling in through the open window, but now that he looked again there was no sign of dampness around the window ledge or floor.

Nox let out an awe-struck gasp as she stepped into the room, taking in the moonlit scene all around them. The moonlight was glittering on the waves and little yellow lights glowed warmly from the village of Abner Duafe,the dark Fort Hills rising behind it.

"It's beautiful," she whispered to him. "Can you imagine living in a place like -" Nox stopped when the lamp turned again, its blinding light momentarily disorientating her.

Fred laughed. "Kind of ruins the mood, doesn't it?"

"Let's have a look around," she said, rubbing her eyes painfully, "see if we can't find anything about Flaversham." Nox walked towards a pair of ladders leaning beside a crooked shelf that had been hastily nailed to the wall above the window.

"What exactly are we looking for, anyway?" asked Fred, peeking underneath the camp-bed. It was empty aside from a little mouse which was crawling around a mouldy piece of bread.

"Anything that sheds light on his character or his history, see if he's had any chance encounters with this Loathly Woman. His family didn't seem to want to talk about him much," said Nox, recalling her conversation with Padrig. She was teetering on the top step of the ladders, peering at the contents of the dusty shelf: there was an antiques annual and an ancient newspaper. "They said the old man has Alzheimer's, but I can tell they're hiding something. The little girl, Morwen, gets along with Flaversham well." She craned her neck to read the headlines of the paper.

"Well she would if they both share a common trait," said Fred.

Nox nodded at him. "Yes, being able to _see _this Loathly Woman, where normal Muggles can't."

Suddenly, the room was drenched in light again and in the brief confusion, Fred saw the slender fingers of water creeping under the window, raising it higher. He looked up in horror; there was a face behind the glass – a woman, beautiful and dark eyed, and whispering to him in such a sweet, seductive tone,

"_Open the window. Let me in."_

Nox turned sharply at the gurgling, hissing voice – Fred was nodding, as if in a trance, and tried to raised the window, but his silvery fingers only slid through it. Still, the woman smiled darkly.

The next moment, water was surging into the tower, driving towards Nox like a ferocious snake. As she raised her arms to shield her face from the sudden torrent of water, the ladders wobbled; one leg tilted off the floor and another second later, Nox was falling down, down through the floorboards and crashing out of sight.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N: **I feel like these chapters aren't turning out the way I planned them, but I hope you liked it! I've started the Twin Vice prequel, Hells Bells, which sheds a little more light on what the twins were up to before the Battle of Hogwarts, and there's also more GeorgexLuna and info on Nox's father if anyone fancies checking it out. I had a lot of fun writing the first chapter - Ed's completely nuts haha! 

Damn, I'm still just so immensely happy at having this commission. Soooo worth the wait. Oh and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! xxx


	11. Casebook 02: The Hanging Dog

**A/N:** Thanks again all you fantastic reviewers who got me up to 100 reviews! Never had so many reviews before, thank you so much!

I'm really sorry for the long wait with this chapter. I felt that the last one really lacked something so I wanted to take my time with this piece. To make up for it I've got new craptacular TVPD art on my deviantart page and two TVPD trailers on Youtube. The links to the trailers are on my profile – if you've got any free time please check 'em out and let me know what you think! They're my very first music videos XD

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**The Hanging Dog

oOo

"Nox! Oi, Nox!"

Fred's silvery face appeared through the hole in the floorboards her fall had made, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

"Blimey, what are you doing down there?" he said.

"I'm taking a nap, what's it look like," Nox muttered irritably, and put a hand to her pounding head. The foul marshy taste at the back of her throat from her previous encounter with Jenny Greenteeth was now replaced with salty water. She squinted at her new surroundings. It looked like she had fallen into a secret compartment cunningly hidden in the floorboards of the lighthouse tower.

She scrambled about for a handhold to pull herself up with, but her gangly legs were caught under the pair of ladders that had toppled down with her. One of her hands slid over something slimy and rotten. Nox grimaced.

"I'm a little stuck here. Can you give me some help?" she called.

"Sure, just grab a hold of my hand and I'll yank you up then," Fred retorted sarcastically.

Nox sighed. "Now isn't the time to get testy about your non-corporeal situation, Fred. We need to get out of here before Flaversham gets back."

"Well if you hadn't climbed down there in the first place – "

"Climb?" she repeated, puzzled. "I didn't climb. I fell! You saw me fall. The Loathly Woman – the _water_ – it came in through the window and … pushed me off the ladders…" Even as she retold the events she knew how crazy it all sounded, apparently even to a former wizard turned ghost, if the doubtful look on Fred's face was anything to go by.

"You hit your head pretty hard there, eh?" he said.

"I didn't imagine it!" she snapped. "You! You saw her too, you tried to let her in –"

"Alright, alright, you don't have to go throwing accusations around. I believe you," he said, waving an airy hand, though it was clearly obvious that he didn't. "Try and get those massive feet out from under the ladders."

"I'm trying, but there's not a lot of room in here – oh! Bloody, bloody _damn._" Nox pulled her hand quickly back away from the sharp object that had just sliced across her palm. She smeared the blood on her dress then began to feel gingerly about for the object and, upon finding it, discovered it was a small silver comb, engraved with the initials E.H. Nox stopped; she had seen the letters before. But before she could search any further, a pair of angry footsteps came striding across the floorboards above her. A moment later she was being wrenched painfully out of the hole by Flaversham Potts. The old man looked furious and very fierce in the flashing glare from the lighthouse lamp.

"What are you doing here? No trespassers allowed!" he bellowed angrily, dragging her to her feet. "I told you ah don't like tourists!"

"Tell him you thought you heard a noise," Fred quickly muttered in her ear, "and that you were checking it out for burglars."

Nox drew him a doubtful look, but Fred ushered her on impatiently.

She explained hurriedly to the irate toymaker and to her surprise her lame excuses seemed to have a positive effect on Flaversham's temper.

"Oh," he said slowly. "That'd be _her_ again, then." His face darkened. "Every night she comes for them and every night ah close the window to her," the old man began to mutter, walking deliberately away towards the stairs with a distinctive limp. Nox had the feeling she was supposed to follow him.

"Who comes here?" she asked as they descended the curving staircase together. "This Loathly Woman?"

Flaversham turned sharply towards her. For a moment he looked as though he had completely forgotten Nox was with him, and when he finally spoke again his voice sounded bitter and heated, and his eyes flashed like hot coals. All at once Nox was reminded of Audra Beckinsale, the little maid of Rosewood.

"That one, yes," drawled Flaversham, thoughtfully. "Those ignorant half-wits on the shore think I'm mad for believing, but when you've lived and fought through two wars you start to understand that the world is a much bigger, deeper place."

Fred and Nox exchanged a glance, then Nox asked tentatively, "What does she come for?"

Flaversham gave her an icy look. "My pride an' joy o' course. Everything that's ever mattered to me. But she will not have 'em. No one will."

"Your toys," she stated, but the old man did not answer her and he didn't speak again until they had reached the bottom of the tower, and he was opening the door into the cool, calm night.

"You best take care on the roads," he grunted. "You know what night it is tomorrow I hope?"

"Night?" Nox asked and looked at Fred, who only shrugged.

"Paranormal Detective did yeh say you were?" The old man pushed his weight into the heavy door, opening it enough for Nox to slip through. "Not much of a detective if yeh don't know what night it is tomorrow. Friday the 13th o'course and you can bet she'll be waiting for you. She knows you're lookin' for her, and she won't make it easy." Flaversham closed the door behind her, adding softly, "And neither will I."

Fred and Nox looked at the lighthouse tower for a while, cold and bone-like in the pearly moonlight, and seemingly doubled in size under the velvety darkness of night. Nox chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her mouth, then turned to the ghost beside her.

"I didn't imagine it," she said, obstinately.

Fred considered her a moment then, with an easy mocking grin, turned to drift across the rocks towards the shore. "Let's get back to Hati's."

A wind was picking up. It whistled up the cobbled streets of Aber Duafe from the vast wilderness of the sea, whipping up Nox's short locks and passing easily through Fred as if he were not there at all. The cool air stung the cut across her palm and suddenly Nox realised she was still holding the silver comb that she had found in the lighthouse tower.

"What's that you've nicked, then?" Fred enquired, bending over her shoulder.

"I didn't mean to take it," she replied honestly and lifted the comb up to the lamplight. "I feel like I've seen it before, or at least the initials. Funny, though, isn't it?"

"Funny? As in 'ha ha' funny? I've got to wonder at you sense of humour sometimes, Noxy. You might need serious treatment."

Nox ignored his jibes and went on to explain. "My translation's a little rusty – I didn't have time to do any thorough research on the town before we left London – but Aber Duafe should roughly translate as 'Comb of the River Mouth'." She turned it over and over again in her fingers, admiring the silvery sheen on its surface. "It's an old comb; beautiful really. Here, have a look at the detail. Isn't that a snake and spear, like the Seal of Cagliostro?"

Fred looked at it dully. "Hmm, yeah. Fascinating." He crossed his arms behind his head and chuckled. "I dunno, you gotta wonder at the old man's sanity, really. I mean, toys?" He shook his head, looking appalled. "He's like the spoiled brat at playgroup who didn't let any of the other kids play with his things." He paused then added with a grin, "Reminds me a bit of Perce."

"Perce?"

"He's my brother. Bossy, important – stuffy sort." He beamed at her. "You'd like him."

A bottle smashed in the not too far off distance and Nox was suddenly aware that the music from the Hanging Dog inn had stopped playing. The town seemed derelict and empty. Yellow light pooled beneath each arched Victorian lamp, sending her shadow out behind them, stretched and flitting. It was strange to see it alone there. Part of her kept expecting to see Fred's shadow join her own in the streaming yellow light.

"Took me a while getting used to it, too," Fred said suddenly. "No shadow, no reflection, no breath against the glass. Funny things to miss. It's stuff I took for granted, but you do miss 'em when they're gone." Fred turned and smiled at her, then floated on ahead, whistling a tune.

Nox smiled wryly. She had to admire his easygoingness.

As she turned to follow him, her eyes caught sight of a large rock in the middle of Bracelet Bay and for a moment she thought she glimpsed a face on the standing rock – a hollow-eyed skull amongst the barnacles and seaweed, glaring at her, _directly_ at her. The comb in her hand felt at once cold and heavy.

Nox turned to run, but Fred was blocking her path. He was frowning out to sea. Without moving his gaze, he put his icy hands on her shoulders gently.

"Don't run. Never run from a magical creature. It'll only make them chase you faster."

Nox suppressed a shudder. "You see her too?"

Fred's face darkened. "Yeah, I see her alright. Turn around, walk slowly."

Nox didn't want to turn her back to that face embedded in the standing rock, and for a moment she imagined how vulnerable her shadow was, flickering down the sloping length of the cobbled street close to the sea wall, almost within grasp of the Loathly Woman's wet fingers.

There was a ghastly howl and the bells in the church further up the road began to toll loudly. Fred looked a little relieved.

"It's alright. I think that's Ran." And as they passed the ancient building with its one glowing light, and beaming face grinning at them from the highest window, Nox felt strangely comforted.

It wasn't until they were turning up the dirt track to Hati's cottage that she realised her dress was completely bone dry. But the water in the Bellrock Lighthouse had been very real and so had the Loathly Woman.

**oOo**

George had flung open the door and was bellowing in their faces before she had even reached her hand out to turn the handle. "Where the bloody hell have you stupid great prats been?"

"Hello to you too, George." Fred drifted past his twin, throwing him a half-assed salute. "Honestly, all night long we've been slaving away, working for you, and this is the thanks we get? And no kiss either!" he ranted in a falsetto voice.

George turned and leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "I tire of this dysfunctional family. What'd you find out?"

"That Flaversham's a nut," said Fred flatly.

"He's not a nut," Nox said archly over her shoulder, walking past both twins into the main sitting room. "He's trying to protect himself and his work from this… whatever it is."

"_The Loathly Womanof Bellrock Lighthouse…_" Fred answered in a mock spooky voice, hunching his back and wiggling his fingers at them.

As they entered the little sitting room again, a slight, blonde figure curled and sleeping on the half-couch stopped Fred and Nox short. Fred blinked rapidly as if he couldn't tell whether or not the girl was real or some sort of apparition.

"What the – _Luna?_ Sorry, I miss something here?" He turned to George for an answer and nearly jumped at the death glares his twin was shooting his way.

"We missed the appointment you set up, _Fred_," said George through gritted teeth. "She came up here with our incredibly helpful new secretary. Remind me to thank him with a pink slip."

"Caith's up here?" Nox asked in disbelief.

"Blimey, that must have been an interesting ride up," said Fred.

George grinned and nodded, grabbing a couple of thick blankets from a shelf on the wall, and throwing one across Luna's sleeping form. "He's in the village, I think. Or in the church, tolling the bells."

George paused as Luna mumbled something fitfully in her sleep. Curled there beneath the blanket, she almost looked more animal than human. George stooped to tuck her in, then stood and said with a long stretch, "Dunno about you lot but I fancy getting some kip in."

There were two camp beds lying parallel to the couch along the floor, both looking moth-eaten and minus a few springs. Hati had turned in hours ago and Fo had apparently gone haunting with his young master. A couple of candles were sputtering on the mantelpiece. Nox climbed under the heavy quilt on the camp bed closest to the strange, wide-eyed girl, and closed her eyes as George blew out the flames.

Only once did she waken in the night.

Sweat was cold on her after her nightmare. In the dream she had been running through an enormous garden of roses, the wind close at her heels. It changed into panting, hot and breathless, and when she turned she saw the enormous head of a werewolf snapping its jaws at her. And then she was standing in the middle of the chequered floor in the entrance hall of Weasley Manor, surrounded by immense pieces of a chess set. Instead of a sword, the White Queen was holding a mirror, its frame a silver snake, slithering around towards the tip of its tail. There was music playing distantly. A horseman came riding behind her, harness clinking. He was helmeted and only his smirking eyes were visible. Nox stopped in front of the mirror. In the grimy glass she could see two figures, one dressed entirely in black, the other in white, and both impressively tall and intimidating. Then the figures blurred and merged, and there was Fred behind the glass, alive and grinning darkly, but when he spoke it wasn't his voice:

'_Open the window. Let me in.'_

The glass shattered and her eyes flew open.

It must have been very late. Moonlight was streaming in through the small window looking out onto Jenny Greenteeth's wood. Nox lay stiff, trying to comprehend the images in her dream. Her eyes drifted to the twins sharing the camp bed beside her. Fred was resting his head against George's chest, and snoring louder than ever. His glowing arm was draped comfortably across his twin's stomach, icy fingertips just brushing her elbow. He looked entirely at peace. Nox smiled warmly, feeling a touch of affection for the ghost. The fire behind them had sunk to a low glow. Already her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy again.

Just then, Nox realised she wasn't the only one awake.

George was staring hard at the ceiling; his dark eyes were thoughtful and impossibly sad. His red hair, which normally hung just below his ears, had fallen back onto his pillow. Before sleep overtook her, Nox could have sworn that instead of an ear, there was a small dark hole in the side of his head…

**oOo**

They left Hati's cottage at noon the next day. Sunshine flooded the bay and Nox was glad that Hati had managed to clean her marsh sodden clothes for her, because the idea of wearing a stiflingly hot velvet dress in mid-summer was not one she relished. The town looked very different in the daylight. Even from the top of the winding, steep road they could see the tourists gathering in the Green near the seafront. Hati had mentioned something about a summer fête before they had left her cottage.

"Summer fairs, ay," said George airily. "Friday the 13th, middle of summer, tourists running rampant… You know what this means, right?"

"The gits on the town council couldn't give a damn about any old watery legend," replied Fred, shaking his head with a soft smile on his lips. "That bartender was right; they wanted us down here for the novelty. Betcha we'll look good on the tourist guide."

George nodded. "Right in one."

"Does it really matter as long as we solve the case and get paid?" Nox asked. "A town council isn't likely to skimp out on us. Which reminds me; Rosewood haven't got round to sending us that big paycheque yet."

"We've got one objective here and it looks like Flaversham's our main bet." said George quietly, casting a short glance at Fred who looked the other way.

"Main bet?" Nox repeated, looking bemused.

Luna suddenly stepped nimbly out of the bushes on the side of the road and into their path, several leaves and twigs tangled in her strangley long hair. Her normally pale face was tinged with pink and engrossed in a sketch of what Nox instantly recognised to be a pair of Gwyllion. When Luna finally looked up, she appeared just as surprised to see them as they were to see her.

"Taking the scenic route Lu?" asked George with a grin.

"Oh, good morning, Fred! Good morning, George." Luna turned and smiled warmly at Nox. "Good morning. I left Hati's early in order to catch the morning Dewbats flying against the sunrise." She flicked through her clipboard and produced a beautiful pastel coloured picture of several silver-tailed birds flitting across a blood-red sky.

Nox examined it, incredulously. "They're actually _moving_."

"You don't say," said Fred, beaming.

"Ahh, Nox, you're still such a naive little Muggley Muggle." George ruffled her short hair so that it stuck up on end with the static. "So Luna, you coming into town with us then?"

Luna blinked her impossibly large eyes at him. "Oh… that would be very nice. Yes, I will," she said in a shy, soft sort of tone that didn't seem to suit her.

"Great! Give you a chance to properly meet our new toy," cried Fred throwing his icy arms around Nox's neck who sighed dolefully.

They continued together down the winding road into the edge of the town where the cottages sat closer together and the old churchyard was visible along the last stretch to the sea wall. Luna was skipping a little ways ahead of them.

"You can always trust a Lovegood not to do things the conventional way," said Fred with a bright grin. "Not that there's any fun in conventionality, anyway."

George gaped at him. "That's six syllables, Fred. You choke on a thesaurus last night? Cough it up, there's a good lad."

"Apologies, George," said Fred, raising himself up with a tone of stuffy importance. "It was inconsiderate and pretentious of me to use such multi-syllabic convoluted language at this early time of day."

"Indeed it was." George nodded gravely. "I dare say you demonstrated a level of ineptitude that bordered on the moronic. A dirty word too, that, conventionality."

"Not one we want to be associated with," Fred readily agreed, then gave a sudden jump when Luna released a burst of laughter. Tears were filling her eyes and she was clutching her clipboard tightly to her stomach.

When at last her laughing fit had subsided, she turned to Nox and said, "They're very funny, aren't they? Sometimes they make me laugh so hard it feels like I've swallowed a barrel of wriggling hinkypuffs! Which I really wouldn't recommend, by the way. It would be very silly and not the least beneficial, a bit like standing on your head to make yourself taller."

Nox smiled and nodded warily. "Er, right… Uhm, yeah I guess they are funny," she said, then added as a quiet afterthought under her breath, "But you get sick of it after a while."

They were taking the shortcut to the town Green through the churchyard. It was a quiet, peaceful place when Ran wasn't howling at the top of his lungs from the steeple. Many of the tombstones and graves were a good four-hundred plus years old. The townspeople still left flowers on many of the older graves.

Rounding the corner of the church, Nox caught sight of a familiar figure crouched over a more modern-looking headstone. She tapped George's arm and whispered in his ear, "That's Padrig from the Inn house. He's our toymaker's nephew."

"And a ruddy big git, besides," added Fred from behind her.

Luna frowned and pointed. "Why do you think he is taking that little box from the grave? You can get into a lot of trouble doing that. He'll have the Grave Bogles on his tail tonight."

As if he had heard her, Padrig's shrewd, red face twisted sharply towards them. For a split second he looked quite panicked, and quickly pocketed the small ornate box Luna had witnessed him taking from the grave. Then he stood, rolling his shoulders back in a threatening posture, and narrowed his small dark eyes.

"You still 'ere, girl?" he said, glowering at Nox. "Thought you'd have been long gone by now." His eyes ranged over George and Luna standing beside her. "So this is what the town's come to, ay? Paying for groups of rag-tag, self-important students to come tearing up the place looking for evil hobgoblins and the like."

"Actually the correct term is Goblin," Luna quickly cut in. "Hob Goblin is slang applied in folktales depicting a friendly Goblin, and I'm afraid you don't get many of those. In fact," she added thoughtfully, putting a finger to her mouth, "I'm not aware of any Goblin groups in this area at all. Oh, and we aren't students either."

Padrig stared utterly perplexed at Luna. Something about her simple, straightforward manner – or maybe her apricot earrings and patchwork dungarees – must have offended him because his face was turning a pleasant shade of violet.

"She bein' funny ay, or is she just a screw loose upstairs?" he asked Nox brusquely, tapping the side of his head.

George strode angrily towards him. "If you've got a problem, _mate_, you can take it up with me!"

Padrig growled and raised a fist, but Nox was between them in an instant, one hand pressing George firmly back. "Come on, George. We don't have time to waste on people like him. Let's get down to this fête, okay?" She could see his hand twitching above the wand in his back pocket and swallowed thickly.

Finally George nodded in agreement and let her lead the way past the sneering man.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, and the sight of the fair on the Green put the unpleasant incident out of their heads. A brass band had been set up on a make-shift platform in the middle of the grass and there was a variety of different stalls selling cakes, bric-a-brac or displaying games where you had to shoot several targets in order to win a prize. Fred and George wasted no time in running off to explore.

"Dad would've loved this. What Muggle novelty!" laughed Fred from inside one of the game-stalls. A large, spotty boy was attempting to knock a coconut off its stand, but every time it teetered on its edge Fred moved it back into place. By the end of the twentieth failed shot, the boy had thrown himself violently onto the ground, wailing and hammering his legs and fists into the grass until the stall keeper finally gave him one of the stuffed bunny-rabbits hanging on a hook.

George shook his head and tutted sadly as the boy went merrily on his way, his tantrum having quickly subsided.

"What a spectacle. Reminds me of Harry's cousin, ickle Dudders. Maybe that was his son?"

"Oh Merlin, don't go saying that!" cried Fred, looking horrified. "I think Harry'd have a heart attack if he thought Dudley had gone and reproduced."

Nox staggered over to them, panting heavily. "Have you seen Luna anywhere?"

"Luna's a music lover," said George, jabbing his thumb towards the brass band where Luna was standing alone, clapping along to the music.

Fred looked Nox up and down and pulled a face. "Where've you been? You're all sweaty."

Nox wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, still breathing hard. "You'd be too if you'd just spent the last half-hour dodging the press. Owena really wasn't lying about – oh no…"

A bustle of eager looking men and women were running towards her, snapping her photograph and talking in an excited nonsensical jabber.

"Matilda Twiddy, editor of the Bracelet Post. Your full name is Gertrude Nox Wolfe, that right? Can you tell us what the Loathly Woman _eats?_ Is it right that she feeds on the hearts of handsome young men when the moon is half crescent?"

Nox blinked. "Er…"

"Barnaby Watts of the historical museum – can you tell us your credentials? Is it true that your father was the notorious Mad Rozza who lost his fortune, prompting him to fake his death?"

She glared. "That's a little personal –"

Matilda Twiddy had pushed to the front of the queue again and was thrusting her audio recorder in Nox's mouth. "We've heard that you had a hand in the Rosewood case in Dartmoor. Was it your gift of second sight that enabled you to discover Catherine Beckinsale's murderer, where Officer Argos Thickley could not?"

Nox goggled at her. "'Second sight?'" she repeated.

A long pale hand moved across her field of vision to stub a smoking cigarette out on Barnaby Watt's notebook.

The little man scowled at the tall intruder. "What the devil do you think you're doing, sir?"

"I'm Miss Wolfe's secretary," Caithion easily replied in his smooth Irish tones. "All interviews must be scheduled between the hours of nine and five every alternate Thursday." He lit another cigarette, took a deep puff, and blew the thick acrid smoke into Matilda Twiddy's disapproving face. "This is a _Friday_."

The group of journalists grumbled and muttered bitterly, but quickly disbanded under Caithion's blood-curdling glares. Nox grinned appreciatively at her saviour.

"Cheers, Caith."

"Yeah," George whistled impressively. "Not too shabbily handled, mate."

"I see you didn't deem it necessary to come to her aid," said Caithion impatiently and the twins fell rigid under his sharp gaze. When he turned his head away, Fred narrowed his eyes darkly.

"Why are his eyes _purple_? That's not normal for a Muggle, is it?" he asked Nox later as they sat alone beneath a carved stone archway. A trellis wound its way over the stonework, entwined with roses. "He gives me the creeps and I swear he bloody _looked_ straight at me earlier."

Nox was fanning herself with a flier listing the fête's events, only half-listening to Fred's misgivings.

"Fred, they're coloured contact lenses. Lots of people wear contacts. Even I do. You're just being paranoid. I've known Caithion all my life. And sure he might be a bit odd, but no odder than…well, Luna."

"Wonderful comparison," said Fred rolling his eyes. "Made me feel heaps better, cheers…_Gertrude_."

A black cloud seemed to materialise above Nox's head and she glared at him menacingly. "_Never_ call me Gertrude, Fred. Ever."

Fred beamed at her. "Ah, if looks could only dig me up and kill me again!"

A small smile lit her face and she added sardonically, "Hmm, if only."

She leaned her back against the cool wall of the arch and watched the people milling across the Green. The entire day so far had been spent interviewing the locals about the Loathly Woman, most of who had outright laughed in her face. Caithion had kept the journalists at bay, but even he couldn't stop the torrents of children that swarmed after her. George had been happy to entertain them with spooky stories about Jenny Greenteeth and the faerie rings in the wood, but she had no solid information that could prove the recent deaths had been the work of the Loathly Woman; nor did she have any idea as to what linked Flaversham to the creature. She took the comb out of her shirt pocket and frowned at the engraved initials.

"I don't see the point in this," she said finally. "If the town council only wanted us here for a publicity stunt, then where is the point in sticking around?"

"Come off it Nox, you didn't really think you could prove the existence of this Loathly Woman to the whole town, did you?" Fred asked her.

Nox answered tentatively after a pause, "I didn't really expect to find _her_ in the first place."

"Ever the nutty realist," said Fred tiredly. "Look, the council might not believe but if this creature really is dragging people into a watery grave, then we've got an obligation to protect the people here. Least until we find out what's riling her up and making her come to shore every night. It's not normal, not for a water sprite…" He sat hunched over his knees, sighing deeply. "Normally the Ministry would clear something like this up in a couple of days, but as it is… _Merlin_, we're still trying to figure out who was under the Imperius curse and who's just blagging it to get outta Azkaban."

This was another one of those speeches Fred and George often made that caused her stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Whatever dark past the snippets of conversation hinted at, the twins had never gone into detail which told her she wasn't meant to know any more. But when she caught the look on her companion's face, her heart sank.

"Fred? Are you alright?"

His head snapped up and he gave her a shaky sort of smile. "Course I am."

Before she could enquire any further, George staggered up to the stone arch, clutching his stomach and laughing uproariously. "You'll never believe it, but I just caught Ran handing that little Muggle girl from the inn a _love note_. Luna wrote it for him. Twisted, eh? C'mon, Fred, we can have some fun with this!"

Fred waggled a finger in the air. "Tsk, George, it would be criminal to mock a heart so young in love." He clapped his hands together and grinned wickedly, his staged concern dropping like a sack of potatoes. "And criminal activity being right up my street, show me the way dear twin!" He patted Nox on the head, still grinning. "I knew he was hiding something yesterday, the ickle sod. Go and find Luna, would you?"

Nox watched as the twins set off again into the Green. They were quick to catch sight of the petrified ghost boy and give chase, hollering and hooting at the top of their lungs while onlookers stared in bewilderment at the one rowdy paranormal detective they could see charging through the crowds.

Chuckling, Nox drew her knees up to her chest. But the first real sense of curiosity over Fred's death was beginning to niggle away at her. What on earth could have happened in the Ministry that allowed werewolves, hags and water spirits to go rampaging about the place? Nox suddenly had the feeling that she did not want to know.

**oOo**

She had caught up to Luna and Caithion on a path that joined onto a trail cutting into the side of the towering Fort Hills. It was a sparsely wooded path and to her right the ground fell sharply away towards the sea which thundered against the rocks far below.

Luna was humming a tune and making the occasional comment on her clipboard with an orange-feathered quill.

"George was telling me that you are looking for the Loathly Woman here," she said abruptly in her usual dreamy voice. "I think she might be a water nymph;_Aquaticus Nymphus-duplicari_, to use their correct term. They can change their shape at will, you know. Only they must have a blood bond with their chosen form."

Beside her, Caithion smiled widely. "I see you have an interest in the paranormal yourself," he said without ever taking his eyes from the road. Nox felt her heart leap – she wanted to beg Luna to stop talking.

But the girl returned her secretary's smile and nodded sagely. "More than an interest. Perhaps it will be my life's work. I do like to hope so." She clutched her clipboard tighter to her chest, a wistful smile upon her pale face.

"You'll find that my Nox is something of a realist," Caithion chuckled dryly. "Paranormal detecting is what you might call the worst job in the wide field of jobs ill-suited to her."

Nox slanted her eyes and 'hmphed'. "I'm still here you know."

Caithion's smile widened further. "I know."

"We shouldn't be out here too late, I think. It is Friday the 13th and I wouldn't like to get caught in a faerie ring," said Luna thoughtfully. "It might be safe to plug our ears on the way home to avoid capture. Faerie music is very alluring. I'd love to capture a ring on paper one night; no one ever has before – at least not without being caught up in the dance. You can dance for up to fifty years if you're caught; one hundred if it's a special night, like tonight."

"Luna was describing the mating habits of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks on our journey yesterday," said Caithion, drawing another cigarette to his lips – it had already been ten minutes since his last one. "A very interesting dance indeed. Not to mention the song of the lamenting Water Hags. That was one the entire train carriage thoroughly enjoyed."

Luna nodded. "It's a pity it hasn't any lyrics."

Nox looked at Caithion askance and preyed that he was taking all of Luna's ramblings with good humour. There was a secretive smile dancing in his bright eyes, and Nox felt she could forgive Fred for feeling so distrustful of him. Her lips twitched in a small smile.

Far below them in Bracelet bay Nox caught sight of the tall rock she had seen the night before. There was no socketless, menacing face there now, but as she looked she fancied the rock itself had the appearance of a forlorn woman reaching her arms out towards the wild sea.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," a voice muttered over her shoulder. She turned to see Caithion and Luna standing shoulder to shoulder, staring solemnly at the rock far beneath them. "Once you see the waters rage, they're never quite as beautiful again."

Nox quirked a brow at her secretary. "Reciting?"

Caithion only shrugged his slim shoulders and turned down the path again, replying casually, "It felt like the right moment."

Nox shook her head amused, but before she could follow him Luna grabbed her hand and motioned with her finger at something slithering wetly across the trail and over the edge of the steep fall to the sea.

"What do you think it is?" said Luna curiously.

Nox groaned. "I have a good idea, but I hope to god I'm wrong." Just then, music began to drift towards them. Familiar music – the music in her dream. "Where's that coming from?" she asked in alarm, then caught sight of an adjoining path to her left leading deeper into the forest. Without a moment's thought, she set off towards it at a run.

"Wait, you mustn't follow the music! You'll be caught in the ring!" Luna was shouting behind her, struggling to keep up as Nox pounded through the trees.

The music was getting louder as she cut a path deeper into the woods, tripping over roots and squelching through mud. At last she skidded to a halt in a clearing. Her hand flew up to her mouth at the morbid scene that greeted her, bathed though it was in friendly golden sunlight.

In the centre of the glade was a huge oak tree. From one of its thick boughs hung Padrig, a rope of seaweed tied tight around his neck, his body twitching spasmodically above the music box he had stolen from the grave.

Luna came crashing through the trees behind her. Her eyes flew to the body hanging from the oak and in another instant her wand was out. There was a loud _bang!_ And Padrig fell limply to the ground.

oOo

* * *

**A/N:** She might be hard to write, but I bloody well love Looney Lovegood XD And I am addicted to making Twin Vice trailers now. Any suggestions for a song to use on my next one? And Hikaru and Kaoru from Ouran Host Club make for a PERFECT Fred and George. Please review! Pints to allxxx


	12. Casebook 02: The Pinkie Promise

**A/N:**_ Important news!_ Well, three bits of important news actually. First off, in honour of the DVD release of OOTP, I made a live-action TVPD trailer (complete with twins, Nox and Snow Queen). I ended up using a Danny Elfman theme because his music just suit Harry Potter so well. You can find the link on my profile.

Secondly, I discovered that a user on Quizilla had stolen Twin Vice, plastered her name all over it and turned Nox into a busty Japanese chick, suffering amnesia and renamed 'Wildfyre'. Seriously, what the HELL is wrong with some people? I've already done the ranting and raging over on Deviantart. Thank you to everyone over there who supported me and complained to the website, because without you this story would probably still be on that girl's account. I don't honestly know where people get the gall to nick other people's work. Beyond me, arghh.

Christmas Fanart Contest: Most important of all, I really wanted to do something for Christmas so I've kick-started a festive Twin Vice contest. Basically it's a fanart contest – rules are simple, you have to feature Fred, George and Nox (and whoever else you fancy) in a Christmassy setting. The winner will receive a Japanese Harry Potter manga/doujinshi anthology and for the runner up I'll either draw a pic of their choosing or give their character a cameo in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to Hatorikunlver for her gorgeous FredxNox fanart (all my gift art has been linked to on my profile here – go look, I implore ye!). And thank you to all the reviewers!

* * *

_Pinkie Promise,  
Pinkie Promise,  
Cross my heart,  
And hope to die,  
Stick a needle in my eye._

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook 02: The Pinkie Promise

**oOo**

'_Contracts. Seals. Agreements. Long have there been stories told detailing the misadventures of pacts between humans and magical beasts: girls who sell their souls to an immortal power and live to regret the bargain; farmers who seal their fate to a kelpie in return for good crops for the harvest, and find themselves in a watery grave; Conjurors and Kings who wish for more power, but cannot, or will not, complete their part in the deal.'_

'_Contracts, it would seem, are amongst the most dangerous magical snares, for it must be taken into account that whatever we wish for must be paid in equal, and to disrespect this agreement often means death.'_

'_In this world, nothing is free.'_

Edward Balthazar McRozen, Treaties of Tyr Na Nog, 1979

**oOo**

"Do Paranormal Detectives make a lot of money?"

Fred lay on his back along the dusty floorboards, staring up at the criss-crossing wooden beams stretching high above him into the dark church belfry. After chasing Ran tirelessly all day with his twin, he decided that he'd earned a rest, though he could practically hear Nox disagreeing with him. Together, Fred, George and Ran had haunted the old church for a while, scaring the neighbourhood busy-body out of her wits with a Decoy Detonator that George had dropped from the belfry tower. It had landed a foot away from the plump Muggle woman in her daffodil-adorned summer hat, exploding on-impact with the ground and spurting out great clouds of black smoke.

George had left soon after, declaring he had unfinished business to attend to, which Fred always took to mean he had hit upon genius again as his twin was often prone to do.

Fo, the little ghost-dog, was leaping about from beam to beam, chasing the moths that fluttered in the light streaming in from the stained glass windows. Ran was lying beside him, imitating Fred's posture by folding his arms casually behind his head and crossing one leg over his propped knee. Fred grinned; it was nice have a young protégé who worshipped your every word and movement. In fact, he wondered why he hadn't got one sooner.

"Skipping the subject, are you?" Fred replied at last, cocking an eyebrow at the small ghost boy.

Ran shook his head, a look of guilt and fear plastering his pale face. "No I'm not! Just curious, is all."

Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know. Not got much care for gold now, do I? Money is old Muggle-pants Noxy's department."

Ran puffed his cheeks up and grumbled irritably, "She don't look like a detective. Used to read about them, y'know, in all the crime pulp paperbacks. Detectives are supposed to carry fancy Muggle gadgets and what-cha-ma-call-its, and wear trench coats and smoke pipes."

"Crime novels, is it?" Fred snorted. "The book I'm waiting for is '_How to Irritate Your Employed Detective for Fun and Profit_'. It doesn't exist yet, but I'm working on it. Anyway, you're still stalling," he said, eyeing the boy suspiciously. "Come on, out with it. What's the deal between you and that girl?"

"It's not my fault! These boys were chasing her!" Ran suddenly protested, then just as quickly hid his face and shoved his hands in his shorts' pockets, looking sulkier than ever. "The school's just up the road, close to Hati's – same one I used to go to when I was alive. I used to see her coming along the road every day. First there was only a couple; they'd call her names for a bit then bugger off. Then they began throwing stuff at her, pulling her hair." Ran shrugged his little shoulders and grunted, "Stupid girl ran in here to escape them. I didn't want a racket – this is _my_ church anyway – so I scared the others off."

Fred blinked at the small ghost boy for a few seconds, then threw his head back and guffawed loudly. "Blimey, is that all?" he cackled. "Who knew you were a regular little hero! A regular spectral brat in shining armour. Must admit though, I'm a bit disappointed. Thought you'd done a number on her or something."

"It wasn't a_ love-note_ I sent her. She's a _girl_!" said Ran, pulling a face, as if the word itself was diseased. "I just wanted to say cheers," he muttered dolefully, "you know, for the stuff she brought." He motioned to the little corner in the small room where a blanket, a few pictures and a basket of rotten fruit were sitting neatly, collecting spider-webs and a nice thick layer of dust.

"You mean Morwen Potts left that there?" asked Fred. "Hmph, looks like you've made a friend for afterlife."

Ran looked at him carefully for a moment, then said, "Don't be stupid."

Not a spec of dust on the heavily caked floorboards moved as he sat back down, crossing his semi-transparent legs. Fred could see the bruises and nail marks along his legs; wounds the marsh hag, Jenny Greenteeth, inflicted when she had dragged Ran off the bank and into his grave fifty years ago.

"Oi, Ran," Fred began, a thought suddenly occurring to him, "is that your real name?"

Ran shook his head. "The town folk called me that." He was focusing hard on drawing patterns with his finger in the thick dust. "I don't remember dying. I remember the hag's hand coming up and then falling into the marsh, then running all the way home like this. That's why they called me Ran, 'cause I ran all the way home. My body's still down in the marsh somewhere." He looked up, curiosity etched on his forever youthful face. "Do you remember?"

"What? Dying?" Fred furrowed his brow and thought hard. It wasn't something he had invested a lot of thought into, for obvious reasons as well as for some unobvious ones. To begin with, dying wasn't all that pleasant. Certainly it was something he only fancied doing the once. Fred remembered the explosion, of debris and fire ripping through the air like fireworks, the solid ground falling away from his feet and the irrefutable knowledge that he was going to pop his clogs: altogether a very unpleasant sort of memory, and one that kind of overshadowed his amusement at Percy having cracked a joke (his brother's first in fifteen years).

But what really bugged him, what really got on Fred's nerves, was the black gaping hole that had briefly swallowed his non-corporeal existence in the time after his death. There had been no white light to turn away from, no forms to fill out, no conscious decision made to become a ghost, and certainly no shrouded listless skeleton leering over him with the gleaming blade of a scythe. Two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, Fred had found himself wandering aimlessly about Hogwarts, semi-transparent and glowing faintly. It had been Peeves of all people (or poltergeists as it were) who had brought him to his senses. From one trickster to another, Peeves held respect for Fred Weasley, especially after an incident involving one Dolores Umbridge, the brief, but not brief enough, Headmistress of Hogwarts. But as far as Fred was aware, he had never consciously chosen to become a ghost.

Fred never saw any point in regretting – regrets wasted valuable time that could otherwise be spent scheming – but suddenly he wondered what his answer would be if he could go back in time and was given the choice to remain all over again…

Just then, Fred realised he hadn't answered his question, but the boy seemed content with writing his name in the dusty floor. Fred squinted at it over his shoulder.

Then Ran stopped. "You can't stay friends with fleshies, you know. 'Not the done thing', that's what the Ministry told me." He sighed and blew the writing on the floorboards away with one icy breath, then tucked his knees closer to his chest. Fo came floating down from the fluttering moths and curled by his feet, wagging his stumpy tail. Ran petted his head gently. "See, I was a Muggle-born. My mum was a local seamstress and my dad was a carpenter; nothing special. He wrote good stories now and then, just for me. When I came back from the marsh no one could see me, no matter how hard I yelled at them. Not my mum, not my uncles or aunts, or cousins. Not even Dad." He rubbed his nose and sniffed. "Stupid deaf prats. They left soon enough. Couldn't bare to live in the house without me, but I was _there_, right in front of them. Right in front of their eyes and they didn't see me."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the small attic, then finally Fred propped himself up on his elbows and asked, "What about Hati? Mum said she lived here all her life. Couldn't she see you?"

Ran ignored him. "I wish you would stay here."

"What?"

"You could!" Ran cried choking through a sob. "You don't need that stupid Muggle girl. George can visit too, Hati won't mind! You're not like other ghosts, all grim and boring. I don't want you to leave after this case! I want you to _stay_."

"Whoa, wait, Ran..." Fred was shaking his head, a grim look on his normally cheery face. "I've got a business in London – blimey, _two_ actually. And friends, and then there's… there's Lee… Angelina -" He stopped short at the miserable look on Ran's face and sighed, drumming his fingers on the floor. Then he leaned closer and planted his hand atop Ran's head, ruffling his hair like he had tried so many times with Nox. "Me and George come in a pair, you know; like socks. Not much point in having one without the other, eh? You'd get blisters on one foot." He leaned back, grinning broadly. "And maybe you're right – maybe I shouldn't be around him." He shrugged. "The longer I'm around, the longer it'll take him to get his act together and find the one he's meant to be with. Guess I'm not ready to let him go just yet. And he'll never leave me unless I tell him to piss off. Selfless bastard."

Fred stretched his pinkie out towards Ran who was snuffling loudly and rubbing his nose raw. "But a Master of Mayhem, such as myself, can't very well drop his apprentice in the middle of his training. A promise is a promise." He winked. "I'll come visit."

Ran hesitated a moment. "No fibs?" he asked warily.

Fred reared back as though deeply offended. "Fib? I never fib! I might embellish the truth from time to time, but fibbing's just below me." He smiled devilishly and Ran grinned, then they hooked each other's pinkies. "Solemnly swear we're up to no good," said Fred, voice smirking, and they chanted together:

'_Pinkie Promise,  
Pinkie Promise,  
Cross my heart,  
And hope to die,  
Stick a needle in my eye!'_

**oOo**

It was 6:30PM on the second day in Aber Duafe and the police officer's mobile phone was bleeping insistently.

"Stupid bleeping phone," he muttered and read the message that had flashed onto the phone's little rectangular screen. "Well, well. You're hanging friend has made it to hospital all right."

"So, he's still alive." Nox nodded, acknowledging the truth of this statement. Calmly, she took a long sip from her cup of tea, taking a little pleasure in the Police Inspector's irritation. He was sitting across the table from her, arms folded neatly on the desk and eyes slanted, watching her very carefully. It was the second time Nox had been interrogated in just over two weeks, the last being at Rosewood Estate; attracting unwanted attention was becoming a bit of a habit. Inwardly, she sighed. Nobody ever trusted a paranormal detective, least of all the law.

Nox took another sip from her mug and allowed herself a small smile. "Can't say I'm surprised. Padrig Potts did have a fat neck to break after all, lucky devil." If she had been the one stuck in the noose, her neck would have snapped like a twig, scrawny stick that it was.

The Police Inspector's arms tensed together on the desk. "You saw no one around at the time, then? No one _suspicious_?" His eyes narrowed further until they were no more than two black beetley dots peeking out at her from the enormous bush that was his mono-brow.

Nox smiled knowingly. "You mean like myself?" She shook her head. "No. There was nobody else around and I wasn't aware of anyone leaving the area when I arrived. And I've told you every last detail of the events that took place after that." Well, that wasn't a complete lie. Nox had explained how she and Luna had come across Padrig, but she had subtly sidestepped the part where Luna had produced a wand and blasted him free from his noose. Somehow she didn't think the Police or Fred and George would appreciate her adding that small detail to her statement.

"Why were you there in the first place?" the Inspector pressed her.

"I've already told you why," she replied, her tone turning stern now. "My companion heard the music box playing and decided to follow it. She was under the impression that it was a faerie ring."

The man frowned further and the dots of his beetley-eyes practically disappeared altogether.

"A faerie ring?" the Police Inspector repeated in a voice that was wholly disbelieving. "You don't honestly expect me to believe that."

"You interviewed Luna Lovegood before me. You tell me." It was becoming hard not to grin.

The Inspector sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Do you often go chasing music boxes, Miss Wolfe?"

Nox set down her mug of tea and shrugged her shoulders. "Depends. If the job pays well enough, I'll hunt down just about anything." She leaned further over the table. "Speaking of which, perhaps you might tell me the full story of the Loathly Woman. I hear she's a local legend around here. Care to elaborate?"

The Inspector groaned exasperatedly. "I believe I'm doing the interviewing here, Miss Wolfe."

"You're town council hired me. I'm only doing my job. Saving a man's life wasn't part of the deal of course," she said with a small gleam in her eye. "Maybe I should charge extra."

The Inspector ignored her. "I've checked your files, you know. If it hadn't been for your hand in the Rosewood case, we might have been taking a very close look at you. Detective Thickley certainly wants us to."

"Thickley?" Nox echoed, glumly. Her heart sank. Argos Thickley was the last person she wanted to see again. His entire family appeared to be made up of hard-boiled, broad-shouldered law enforcers with little time for wizards and paranormal adventurers. Once, Nox had respected good straight-laced realists like Argos. Now she was beginning to see differently. Very differently.

"We don't exactly see eye to eye," she admitted irritably. "Look, I've told you everything I know about Padrig Potts. So unless you think there's anything deeply suspicious, I'll be on my way. I've got work to do."

The Inspector raised his bushy grey mono-brow, sceptically. "Work? You're carrying on your investigation, then? Tell me something first," he began slowly, "what have you learnt about Padrig's uncle, Flaversham?"

"That he believes one hundred percent in your town legend," answered Nox, plainly. "You know, you'd make my job a hell of a lot easier if you just told me what you know about _her_."

"Like I said, Miss Wolfe, just legend, no more than that," he said swiftly, shuffling a pile of papers and sorting some pens into a jar on his desktop, making it clear that he had no time or patience to talk about such subjects.

But Nox was feeling stubborn. "Humour me," she said, steepling her fingers and resting her chin against them.

The Inspector eyed her crossly, but nevertheless gave in. "The rumours began 'bout fifty years ago: sightings, wailings, the usual lark. If someone drowned, town blamed her for it. Between her and the marsh at top of the woods, this place got a bad reputation."

"Which is why the council called us in," Nox finished for him. "You wanted to put a humorous spin on the Loathly Woman, turn the whole situation into a money-making scheme?" she stated, picking up her mug again and blowing the steaming contents cool. "Not that I blame you," she added dryly.

"It's _only_ a legend," he said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "A ridiculous romantic one at that."

Nox arched her eyebrows high. "Romantic? How?"

"Some girl got jilted on her wedding day back in the fifties. They say she put a dagger through her throat out in the middle of the bay after her bloke left off," he said, rolling his eyes. "Know that rock out yonder, the one that looks like a monolith? That's her place. That's where they say she comes from every night. I don't believe a word of it, but I will say one thing – off record, mind. I'll swear on my grave that rock changes place. Never seen it in the same spot two weeks in a row and I ain't the only one who'll swear to that."

Nox left the station feeling the Police Inspector had been far more honest with her than she had been with him. Across the road, a dreamy Luna Lovegood was rocking on the balls of her feet near to the sea wall and humming a tune. Nox crossed the road towards her, wishing she had brought her jacket from Hati's after all. There was a sudden chill to the air.

"Curse Friday the thirteenth," she muttered and dug deep into her trouser pocket, fishing out a half-empty packet of cigarettes. Nox had promised herself that she'd quit before the month was out, but here she was, halfway through June and already a good way through the packet she had bought at Kings Cross station after the eventful stay at Rosewood. Nox wasn't a big smoker – certainly not on a par with her secretary – but it helped her keep her mind sharpened and focused, especially when she was feeling stressed. And stressing out seemed to be her favourite pastime of late.

Beside her, Luna put her finger to her lips and said thoughtfully, "I wonder if there's any danger in cursing a cursed date. There's a sun-ring in the water, so perhaps you'll be lucky."

They began to walk along the sea front, Luna spinning slowly as they went, her long dirty blonde hair catching the sun. Nox had to admire her free spirit.

"Do you think George is alright?" Luna suddenly asked in concern.

Nox smiled wryly. "Well, he wasn't the one hanging from a tree, was he? He'll be with Fred, wreaking havoc no doubt." She lit the cigarette and breathed deep smoky sigh of content.

Luna wrinkled her nose, and then raised her hand to point at a familiar rock on the shoreline. "Was the Loathly Woman's rock so far along this way before? I thought it was closer to the green on the other side of the Inn. Now it looks -"

"- like it's closer to Bellrock Lighthouse, yes," Nox finished for her and they both glanced towards the bone-like structure at the end of the horn where Flaversham kept his keeps, crafting toys and hording them in a vain attempt to keep them from the water nymph's clutches.

"I wonder what She wants with them," Nox muttered, half to herself, half to Luna, as the climbed the sloping road up towards the church. "And what on earth did She want with Padrig today? I wish the Police hadn't taken that music box. Bet it was important," she said, recalling the hand-crafted box they had found beneath the tree. It had been engraved with a set of familiar initials: E.H.

"It's a funny thing for an _Aquaticus Nymphus-duplicari_ to do, though," said Luna softly. "Most don't want anything to do with humans. They prefer to stay in the sea." Luna turned to face Nox, her misty eyes glinting with something more than the bright sunlight. "She must want something from the land."

"Or _someone_," Nox agreed, grimly.

They had stopped beside the old church and graveyard. There was still a good three hours of daylight left, but the lamp in Bellrock Lighthouse was already turning. Nox pulled the cigarette out of her lips, stubbing it against a nearby lamppost. She looked around for a bin to put the remainder of the stub when a long pale hand reached towards her, palm facing upwards. Nox smiled weakly and placed the stub into the offered hand.

"I thought you had quit." It was more of an unspoken demand than a casual observation.

She gave Caithion a cool look then replied, "I have. Certain occasions call for the odd ciggy, this being one of them."

"They're bad for your health," said Caithion, flipping the lid off his skeleton engraved zippo and lighting his own cigarette. He took a puff and added, "I should know. But I suppose I should be flattered that you want to follow in my footsteps, little Nox."

Luna peered at him, her wide misty eyes looking concerned. "Have you seen George by any chance?"

"I'm sure he's on his way. As am I," he said, turning slowly on his heel. "I only wanted to make sure you had survived the gruelling hour of questioning at the station. As it appears you have and all is well once more, I intend to get very drunk at the Hanging Dog. It is Friday the thirteenth after all." He paused for a moment, as if his attention had been caught by something amongst the graveyard. For a split second, Nox thought she had seen Caithion's normally aloof and detached expression soften, as though the old and crumbling tombstones housed old friends fondly remembered.

"It's a nice graveyard. Old and quiet," he remarked over his shoulder with a lopsided smile. "Perhaps you might take a look while you're waiting for Mr Weasley. Never know what you might find." One vibrant purple eye gleamed at them and then he began to walk down the road towards the sea front, waving a hand casually behind him. "Good night. Take care."

Luna smiled and gently grasped Nox's hand, pulling her through the graveyard gates before the detective could utter any sort of refusal. A few tombs were covered over with rusting metal cages that once served to keep the greedy fingers of roaming grave-robbers out. Trails of ivy snaked over the wall. They stopped in front of the modern grave; the one Padrig had lifted the music box from.

Nox read them name out loud, "Lamant Potts."

**oOo**

Over the mire, the trees met in a tangle of bare twigs, like bony fingers intertwined. Jackdaws karked and flapped amongst them. The stagnant swamp smelled even fouler than before if that was possible. George wrinkled his nose in disgust and pointed the tip of his wand towards the slimy green surface.

"_Caleo,"_ he muttered calmly. At once the surface of the mire began to hiss and bubble with the heat charm, billowing clouds of steam into the air. There was a terrible, hissing scream as a shoot of marshy water erupted from the swamp, along with a very peeved looking Jenny Greenteeth. Her green head and shoulders bobbed above the surface, needle-like mossy teeth bared and yellow eyes glaring hatefully at George, but he did not move from his place on the bank. He'd been humiliated once by the swamp hag and he'd be damned if he was going to let it happen again.

He cocked his head and smiled smugly. "Nice evening isn't it?"

"Stupid, wicked, merciless, sabotaging, nasty wizard!" spat the hag furiously. "Coming into our swamp, disturbing our sleep! What harm was we doing, not nothing to no one, and yet he comes crawling backs to us, to hurt us, yes, to kill us even. Wicked, evil, FAT wizard."

"Oi! Watch your mouth!" George exclaimed, tightening his grip on his wand. "S'not fat – it's muscle, I'll have you know."

"Lots of meat on your bones…" The hag eyed him very carefully, a look of longing in her golden orbs. She licked her chops hungrily. "Hunger grows – been so long since I had a good feast. No fish in the mire, no, none at all. Nothing lives down here that should live. We've been living off Grindylows – stubborn, hateful beasts, even after Death's got to them. Stick in your gut and cramp your insides, so little meat on their skinny arms and legs."

George shivered in repulsion. "You mind? It's a little difficult making conversation when you're eyeing me up for tea." He levelled his wand with her face and smiled darkly. "Now, you're going to help me out a bit. And if you don't I'll boil you alive in there and you won't have to bother no more about an empty belly, got it?"

The swamp hag sizzled with fury, but realising that George was not making idle threats, she nodded her head stiffly.

"Good. Right then," he began, edging a little closer to the mire, "you can start by telling me everything you know about the Loathly Woman down at the shore."

"What would we knows about the shore?" said Jenny irritably. "We never leave our home."

George laughed bitterly. "Don't give me that. Most water spirits and creatures are linked by the rain. If you wanted I bet you could tell me what the Merfolk up at Hogwarts are up to. So go on, out with it."

The hag looked uncomfortable. Jenny bared her razor sharp teeth for a moment and then grumbled, "That one's not special. Not like us," she snorted in disdain. "Parasite, contractor, doppelganger – meddling with Muggles and fat wizard-folk. Not right. Not normal. Creatures should stick to their own kind, keeps their blood nice and pure." She leered at him cruelly. "We saw you with one – a nasty Muggle girl with meatless bones."

"That's why you attacked us," asked George incredulously, "because we were travelling with Nox?"

She smiled at him slyly. "Wizards and Muggles shouldn't be mixing, makes the blood run weak and makes our skin crawl. _He_ knew where to put Muggles. _He_ knew their rightful place – below wizards, below our kind. Voldemo-"

"Say that name and I'll jinx your head clean off, got it?" he snarled, flicking his wand agitatedly, and Jenny flinched as a few sparks spat towards her. George was shaking with rage; he wanted nothing more than to make the horrid hag before him pay for all the innocent people she had dragged down to the mire's depths. But it was the mention of Voldemort's name that had made his blood boil; the Dark Wizard who had been indirectly responsible for Fred's death.

George forced himself to regain some semblance of calm. Jenny Greenteeth was still a danger after all and he knew she would strike if he showed any sign of weakness. He drew himself up, squaring his broad shoulders.

"Go on then, tell me more about the shore."

"That's all we know." The hag shrugged her green shoulders indifferently. "Years ago she made a contract with one of your kind: a witch, yes, and now the craft-man's got something she wants, but he won't give it up, no, no, too proud. His heart is pierced with ice and he'll die, or let's other folk die first before he gives her it." She grinned at the thought.

"You mean the toymaker has whatever the Loathly Woman's after?" said George thoughtfully. "So it is him. Thought as much. His vice is Pride, then…"

"Oh," said the hag, looking vaguely surprised. "So the wizard knows, does he?"

George raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Know what?"

"About her seven sins." Jenny Greenteeth grinned. "The Snow Queen's after you blood, boy."

George took a sharp intake of breath. "Snow Queen?"

The hag bobbed in the water for a moment, leaf-green hair plastered to her forehead and a devious glint in her eye. She was conversing with herself in an amused tone. "He doesn't know, isn't that interesting? Yes very, but he must know something's amiss or he wouldn't be out here chasing Muggles with shadows on their hearts."

George rubbed his forehead, feeling frustrated and confused. Of course, he knew the story of the Snow Queen. Most people did, even Muggles, or so he'd heard. Every culture from England to Timbuktu had their own version of the Snow Queen and the wizard community was no different, except, perhaps, their version was the most likely of all to have existed, for the Snow Queen was retraceable to the Slytherins: indeed, the Snow Queen was rumoured to be Salazar Slytherin's mother. But she had died two thousand years ago. The idea that she could return seemed ludicrous.

George sighed. The hag must have been purposefully stalling. "Look, do you plan on getting to the point any time soon, or do I have to raise the temperature a bit?" he muttered impatiently and the mire began to hiss and bubble again with the heat charm.

Jenny winced. "The Muggles you're saving – the little pieces of glass you collect," she hissed, "each one you save will bring you closer to the Queen. You are being set up."

George felt shook his head in annoyance. "We know what we're doing, thanks. Besides, there's no other way around it – if we don't find these seven Muggles, Fred'll become -"

"- one of the shadow folk," Jenny finished for him, looking delighted. "Exorcised, turned to dust and gone in a puff. Some say shadow folk end up in Grigheim, where not even the bone-fires burn." She cackled. "What a mess he's in, isn't he. Has a nasty contract of his own."

George folded his arms and gazed at her steadily, but inwardly his mind was a jumble of unanswered questions. Not for the first time George wished that he and Fred had never stepped foot inside the now titled Weasley Manor, but he knew it was no good regretting past mistakes. They weren't to know, he told himself, that the house had been cursed. Although they weren't entirely certain who had placed the curse on the building or why, the green fire writing on the wall had clearly alluded to Death itself. Of course, that was impossible. But then, could the curse really have been the Snow Queen's making, something she had left behind to ensure her return?

George was suddenly aware of Jenny Greenteeth's golden eyes flickering over him, studying him intently. He raised his wand in defence, but she only cocked her head and laughed bitterly.

"The house you're in," she began in a low voice, "is _his_ house."

George blinked. "Whose house?" He could not keep the eagerness out of his tone and the hag's smile grew broader, toothier.

"Slytherin's," she replied.

**oOo**

Luna had left Nox's company to join Caithion in the Hanging Dog Inn. Nox found the idea of Luna in a pub surrounded by drunk old men and Owena Potts, the lively proprietor of the establishment, to be a bit odd. But then she supposed the misty-eyed witch would be in similar company if she was going to meet her secretary.

Nox was sitting on the halved-couch in Batty Hati's strange little cottage, sipping a mug of home-made broth (which was thankfully devoid of bats and cabbage), and mulling over the clues she had gathered. Hati was busying about the fireplace preparing dinner, stirring the stew inside the large pewter cauldron with an equally large wooden ladle, and for the first time Nox noticed that the old woman was missing the last two fingers on her left hand. Curious, she began to ponder on how the witch might have lost them. Hati smiled at her knowingly and Nox quickly averted her gaze, a slight blush coming to her cheeks.

Absently, she wondered where the twins had got to. Her thoughts turned to them. Fred and George had asked several things about her past, but she realised that they had been very careful not to reveal much about themselves.

"What do you know about Fred and George, Hati?" she asked suddenly.

The old witch turned her warty face to her and smiled knowingly. "You are not asking correctly, my dear. What you mean to ask is, what do I know about Fred Weasley – how did he become a ghost and what in fact makes a person a ghost after death."

Nox sat in stunned silence for a moment, and then asked eagerly, "Do you know?"

Hati nodded grimly. "I do. But are you sure you want to know?"

Nox her head nodded firmly. "I do."

"Well…" Hati moved to sit across from her on the armchair closest to the fire. "In the first place, only a witch or a wizard can become a ghost. The choice is given to us when we die, or so it's theorised, in a place that is neither here nor there, between the world of the living and the world of the dead."

"Limbo?" asked Nox, astonished.

"Yes, you could call it that," the old woman agreed. "That is where we make our decision: to tread this living world as a shadow until the sun sets for the last time and the moon crashes into the sea, or to rest in the halls with the souls of our ancestors."

Nox forced back a smirk at Hati's excessively flowery language. "But nobody can come back from limbo? Alive, I mean."

Hati paused, looking very thoughtful. "Sometimes, and believe me these are few and far between 'sometimes', if a soul who enters limbo hears the voice of their most precious person, that soul might return to its body."

"You mean like coming out of a coma?"

"Yes, exactly like that." Hati shook her head sadly. "It's too late for Fred to return. It's a sad situation, my dear. First that poor wretched family had to bury their brightest flame and then see his twin walk and talk every day."

Now furrowed her brow; she did not like what Hati was insinuating. "It's not fair to talk about George like his living is some sort of sin."

"You're right, it's not fair. But think for a moment how hard it was for their family - indeed, how hard it was for _George_ to see his reflection in the mirror every day. I personally think that's why Fred came back to us, to shadow the land of the living." Hati pursed her lips and grumbled irritably. "I don't believe a word of that tripe Reeta Skeeter's written. Dreadful woman, as if that family hasn't suffered enough without her writing those articles."

"Who's Rita Skeeter?"

Hati considered her for a moment. "Of course! I'm very sorry, my dear, I keep forgetting you're a Muggle. Rita Skeeter, you see, is a tabloid artist. Every article that woman has ever written is nothing but one quarter truth to three quarters rubbish! I should cut off my other hand if I were to repeat those awful words, but I'll tell you one thing my girl, if you ever come across one, don't believe a word of it! Fred Weasley was a hero in that war and you mark my word. Oh, now look at me. This topic has gotten me into a grand tizzy – I've burnt the soup, great fat fool that I am!"

Nox had to smile – Hati often sounded like her father. She wanted to press her for more information, for the old woman had done little to satiate her curiosity (quite the opposite in fact), when something else the old woman had just mentioned caught her attention. Just then the door was flung open and George came into the room, logs for the fire bobbing through the air behind him as though dancing on invisible strings. The peculiar sight distracted Nox from her thoughts a moment and before she could return to them, they were accompanied by Fred and Ran, who came tearing into the cottage, buckling with laughter.

"You should have seen the look on that grave digger's face when I popped out of that hole!" cried Ran. "He looked like he was going to join the bloke he'd just packed underground. I've never had so much fun!"

"That's because you're in the prestigious company of the greatest prankster who ever died," said Fred beaming gleefully.

"Ran! You're going to get into big trouble with the Ministry if you keep straying from the church tower," Hati scolded and waved her ladle wildly in the air. "And you two! Why I ever trusted you boys is beyond me. You know better than to egg Ran on. Why, if your mother knew-"

"I was collecting firewood!" George quickly put in with an innocent tone and pointed at the logs which were currently dancing in a ring near the hearth. "Blame Fred!"

"Oh, cheers smart arse!" laughed Fred and made a rude gesture with his middle finger, then bent down to clap Fo who was running around in circles at his feet. "We've been busy, haven't we boy?"

Nox smirked. "Do you think you get along with animals so well because you relate to them on an intellectual level?"

"Jealous, are we?" Fred grinned and plonked his silver hand down on her head. "If you wanted attention, you only had to say." He peered at her closely. "Hmm, you do resemble a dog a bit; in a good way."

"Are you trying to offend me?"

"Never dream of it!" Fred floated back, sliding his arms behind his head in one casual fluid movement. "Haven't said a word about your flat-as-a-doormat chest, have I, although, my recent observations have perceived a total lack of curvature to your overall meagre boyish frame."

Nox groaned tiredly. "You'd make a cat bark."

Fred shushed Nox, putting an icy finger to her lips with a smile meant to charm. "If you're good I'll scratch you behind your ears."

"No thank you."

"Belly rub, then?"

"You really are the biggest idiot I know," Nox stated bluntly.

The door banged open once more and everyone turned around expecting to see Luna floating across the threshold, but nobody came. The doorway was empty. George frowned. He turned his head and looked back at Fred questioningly, who only shrugged, and at the same time Nox felt a cold sea breeze draft through the door, ruffling her hair and collar. The little hairs at the back of her neck tingled in apprehension.

"What is it?" she asked uneasily.

"The tide's coming in." Hati was ashen-faced. When she spoke again her voice was strained, painful. "She won't wait any longer."

**oOo**

**

* * *

  
**

**A/N: **Please tell me if this is getting too confusing. I'm getting a bit worried – I know exactly where I'm going with the plot, but it's so hard making it flow and connect on paper. Anyways, if anyone is interested in the Christmas fanart competition please PM me (go on, it'll be a laugh!). So far I've got three people entering, but I think I'll have to have at least five people before I go ahead and buy the prizes.

Final chapter WILL be up in a few days; I've already got most of it written. Hope you also enjoyed the latest Twin Vice trailer! Thanks again for the people who rallied to get my fic removed from that girl's account (ruddy plagiarism). Love you brilliant sods! xxx


	13. Casebook Closed: Pride

**Disclaimer:** This chapter is really heavily based on Catherine Fisher's short story the Candleman, so rights to her for the Loathly Woman (well the character goes by a different name in her story, but still ). And obviously HP belongs to JKR

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews and for all the support over on Deviantart! Here's a longer chapter to make up for last week's short one. Not to mention, an end to the second casebook! There's a few more wicked surprises…

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook Closed: Pride

**oOo**

Fearfully, they looked at the old witch. The sky outside was getting darker and a heavy scent of salt-water and fish hung in the air. A stiff breeze began to pick up, whistling through the cracks between the window panes.

"Tide's coming in," commented George grimly, "and it sounds like someone got out the wrong side of her seabed."

Ran drifted closer to Fred as Fo began a low, warning growl, the fur at the back of his neck bristling in agitation.

"Luna said she was just a water nymph," Nox muttered softly. "How strong can she be?"

"Depends, doesn't it," George answered her, moving across the room to shut the front door. "Did some research of my own today; this one's a contractor, so her strength will depend on the exchange she made."

Suddenly the wind gathered and surged against the door, driving George back, and he flung his arms up to protect himself. Far off to west they could see an ominous bank of cloud rising, and Nox was sure she wasn't the only one who heard the chilling whisper on the back of the howling wind: '_Return what's mine. Let me in.'_

George threw his weight against the door, quickly bolting it shut, but the moment he had, the windows facing the sea shattered inwards. Immediately, Hati flicked her ladle in the air with a shouted, 'REPARO!', and to everyone's great surprise the glass sprang back into the window frames, piecing together like a jigsaw. Outside, they could hear the wind swell and seethe with fury.

"She_ is_ strong." Nox looked alarmed. "We'll never survive this."

"Nonsense," said George, dusting his hands off. "You're only saying that because you've never faced an iniquitous _Aquaticus Nymphus-duplicari_ before."

Nox cocked an eyebrow at him, sceptically. "And you have, I suppose?"

George faltered. "Well… no, not exactly," he admitted with an easy grin. "But how hard can it be? Not like she can leave the water, is it?"

Just then, the daylight seemed to wink out altogether. The sound in the cottage momentarily stilled; outside the storm was howling.

"Ah," muttered Fred after a pause, "smashing. So, any bright spur-of-the-moment ideas? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think our current predicament might call for one. Or at least some info on this contract."

Nox chewed her lip anxiously. "I know how the town legend of the contract goes, but I'm not sure if there's much truth to it." The twins looked at her imploringly, urging her to continue. Ran huddled closer to Fo, keeping a wary eye on the front door, and Hati remained very quiet, clutching her transfigured ladle-wand to her chest.

"Well," Nox began again, "a girl was rumoured to have killed herself down on the beach about fifty years ago. The Loathly Woman's supposed to be her ghost, I think, and I'm sure if we checked it up on the town's obituary files…" She trailed off, catching the look on Fred's face. "Fred?"

"Hold on a sec, that comb you picked up at the lighthouse," Fred mumbled, studying his pinkie finger intently. "What were those initials on it again?"

"E.H.," she supplied.

"And you said this girl killed herself, eh?" he asked and Nox nodded in agreement.

"Mmh, cut her throat after she was jilted, I think."

Fred shook his head. "No, I don't think."

George frowned. "Brainwave, Fred?"

Fred turned towards Hati, glowering. "Don't know, George, why don't you ask our host?"

Nox felt her heart skip a beat – of course! Hati's full name had been sewn into the dress Nox had borrowed from her: Efranda Hati. No wonder the letters had been familiar! Nox turned towards the old witch who was hiding her face by the cauldron, and gasped, "She didn't kill herself." She pointed at the witch's mutilated hand. "It was you! You made the blood contract with the nymph with your hand. Hati, why didn't you tell us?"

"I never knew!" Hati wailed miserably. "How was I supposed to know? It wasn't intentional! I didn't even realise she had anything to do with me until a few weeks ago! It's like I told you, no one from the Ministry could be spared to come out here, so I urged the town council to call in specialists. I thought that if Muggle specialists were seen to be poking their noses into magical affairs, the Ministry would have no choice but to send someone over." She dropped heavily into her halved armchair, which rocked precariously on its two legs under the sudden weight, and began to weep. "Hell's Bells, how could I tell anyone it was all _my__ fault?_"

"Was Flaversham the one who jilt – er – who left you at your wedding?" asked Nox, wincing as another choked sob burst from the old witch's chest.

"Yes," Hati replied mournfully, blowing her nose on the hem of her apron. "He left after his nephew, Lamant, was murdered at the Mire. Couldn't marry a witch after that, or so he said."

Ran jumped. "What? Me?"

Fred looked startled. He rounded on the ghost boy, eyes wide, having instantly recognised the name from the writing on the dusty church floorboards.

Nox nodded her head in understanding. She had guessed Ran's true identity when she and Luna had found Lamant Pott's gravestone in the old churchyard. "Ran, can you tell us exactly what happened that day?"

Grumbling, Ran turned to Fred imploringly, who winked and nodded him on. "Fine, alright then." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared hard at the ground, trying to remember the events that had taken place half a century ago. "I was walking down to the Mire with my brother –"

"Padrig," Nox interrupted.

"You going to listen to me, _carp-face_, or what?" Ran scowled and Nox nodded her head sheepishly. "Padrig hated Hati, he knew she was a witch and he didn't want her marrying into our family. I knew she was one too 'cause she was the first who noticed something different in me. She told me I'd go to Hogwarts some day, just like her, and learn to be a wizard." He shot a shy sort of smile at Hati. "But s'like I said, Padrig didn't want her to marry our uncle – _Flaversham_," he said quickly before Nox could interrupt him again. Her ears reddened with embarrassment. "Padrig said if we could prove that Jenny Greenteeth existed, we could prove that Hati was a witch and our uncle would put off the wedding for good. That way our family name wouldn't be dragged into the mud."

"But he didn't count on old Greenteeth being as quick as she was," said George, sighing deeply.

"And you got the short end of the stick," Fred finished. Hati was dabbing her bleary eyes. He chuckled dryly. "Funny that, how Muggles can get just as fanatical about their pure blood as old wizarding families can."

"One thing I don't understand," Nox started, staring thoughtfully at Hati's left hand. "Why did you cut off those two fingers?"

"It's an ancient wizarding tradition," Fred explained for her. "Pinkies and ring fingers have a magic of their own because of the weight of the marriage vow and the promises you make with them."

"Mixing the blood from either finger can give the consumer a nice dose of power – dark magic, mind," said George, shooting a cool glance at Hati. "Not the kind you want to get mixed up in."

Nox stared at them, agog. "It sounds barbaric."

The twins spun towards her and grinned, identical Cheshire Cat leers, and said together, "You don't know the half of it."

"For example," George began while Fred made a slicing motion across his neck, crossing his eyes and letting his head loll sideways onto his shoulders. "Break an Unbreakable Vow -"

"-and you're six feet under and deader than a dead doornail," finished Fred as his twin hummed jaunty version of the funeral march.

Nox felt horrified, but kept her silence nonetheless. She didn't want to offend them; it was their culture after all. '_Still…'_ She shuddered inwardly and tried to imagine a scenario that would persuade her to cut her own fingers off.

Hati noticed her troubled expression and gave her a gentle, teary smile. "It's hard to understand if you've never lost your heart before, my dear. Or, indeed, had it broken."

Nox looked at her uncertainly. "Eh, it's not that exactly…"

A beaming Fred cast a cold arm around her shoulders. "Not to worry, your Muggle Highness-ness, I'm actually with you on this one. Unbreakable vows, dramatic gestures, fingers flying loose – all a tad romantic for me," he said in an airy tone.

"Romantic's not the word I'd choose," Nox muttered, sliding away from him with a loud sneeze. "Ah, Fred, you're going to give me a bloody cold at this rate!"

"You've got no respect for the dead."

"You've got no respect for the living!"

Ignoring their squabbling, George began lighting a few candles along the mantelpiece and then crossed the room to peer outside at the gathering storm. "Why is it that every spooky incident we encounter is conveniently accompanied by a storm?" he asked.

No one answered him. Fred and Nox had stopped arguing.

"Well?"

"George," said Nox, motioning to the window behind him. George took one look at the detective's pale face and whirled round to stare back at the window. Fo was barking, his hackles raised. The rain water pattering against the glass outside was beginning to twist and slither into words: _Return what the keeper has stolen or I will flood the town._

Darkness grew and the walls of Hati's little cottage suddenly seemed like a very meagre defence against the wind and the rain. There was a terrible crash from outside as one of the trees around Jenny Greenteeth's wood toppled to the ground. Then suddenly they were all aware of another sound beyond the howling wind; of waves on a beach, of water thrashing against the sea wall. George wrenched the curtains closed.

"'Flood the town'," Fred repeated idly. "Oh good, is that all? For a moment there I was worried."

"By 'keeper' she must mean Flaversham," said Nox. "Apparently he's still the one _She_ wants - he'll be at risk out there in the lighthouse. After all, the Loathly Woman managed to get in before the night Fred and I were -"

"– Breaking in," finished Fred, his silvery face beaming.

Nox ignored his jibe. "She'll be stronger tonight because it's Friday the 13th, so goodness knows what she'll be capable of now," she said. "But why does she want _us_ to return what he's stolen? Why us? Technically, we've got nothing to do with this." Then her fingers brushed something cool and smooth inside her trouser pocket. Her eyes widened in realisation.

"Listen!" Hati cried, unexpectedly, her swollen eyes desperate and serious. "You must guard the wall. You've seen it for yourselves, there is nothing between the town and the sea but the wall. If it goes, oh, I hate to think what might happen." The old witch began to snivel and blubber again, burying her large nose into her now sopping wet apron. "I'd never ever forgive myself if that happened, not ever…"

The twins quirked their mouths and shared an exasperated look. Then, with a heavy sigh, Nox got to her feet and strode over to the coat-stand – sliced neatly in half to fit in with the old witch's peculiar décor – tugging her long navy coat from its peg and pulling it on. She shot an impatient look at the bewildered twins.

"Well? Get a move on then. What good's a wand if you can't give it a twirl and save a few lives, ay?" she said accusingly.

"What good indeed?" George replied lightly, though with a small grin.

"And what, may I ask, has prompted this sudden move into action? Got nargles in your knickers or something, Noxy? Fred enquired and pretended to clean out his ear, adding, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say we couldn't face up to this overgrown fish?"

"Yes, but I know what the Loathly Woman wants now. And besides, don't give me that rubbish," Nox snapped irritably, buttoning up the large brass buttons on her coat. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but danger happens to be your line of business. Anyone who says differently is selling something. Now hurry up!" She wrenched the front door open and disappeared across the threshold into the storm.

Fred crossed his arms and sighed. "George."

"Yes, Fred?"

"I think we might've upset the delicate internal balance of our detective," said Fred.

A grin broke out over George's face. "Good. About time somebody did."

**oOo**

There was still another two hours to go before sunset but the clouds were now so thick and black that it was hard to believe the sun was out at all. The Hanging Dog Inn was packed. The waves were charging over the sea wall like a pack of wild horses, the white spray spattering against the windows which rattled in protest. At first people had taken the storm with good humour, many having come in from the beach or away from the Green's festivities to avoid the sudden bad weather, ordering rounds of whiskey and Guinness to pass the storm by. But the storm didn't sound like it planned on giving up its assault on the town any time soon. No indeed, it had only grown in ferocity and strength. Panic was beginning to show on a few faces around the pub.

Luna Lovegood and the Irishman, Caithion Sidhe, however, were deeply engrossed in their game of chess.

"It's a bad storm," Luna commented idly, moving one of her pieces across the chequered board and musing on how well it resembled the floor of Weasley Manor. "I do hope George hasn't been caught in it."

"George, again, is it?" Caithion commented in a dry tongue. "That's only the fourteenth time you've mentioned his name. Might I be right in thinking –" He paused, catching the look of honest bewilderment on Luna's dreamy-eyed face. "Hmm. Never mind.

"It's your turn now." Luna motioned towards the chess board.

The walls of the Inn began to rattle fiercely as the gales increased. Luna and her companion watched with silent interest as the chess pieces trembled across the board as if animated by their own magic.

Caithion raised one dark feline brow. "I believe the storm just made my move for me."

Owena Potts, the bartender and proprietor of the Inn, suddenly came rushing through the front door, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. "That's the sandbags out," she said to a couple of regulars sitting at the bar. "The roads are completely flooded and the phone lines are all down. Can't even get a signal on my mobile."

After making sure the front door was secure, she came to sit at a table near Luna's. "I'm worried about Dad. He's in the lighthouse all by himself, but he refuses to come out. There's no way I can get back there, the path over is almost completely flooded." Owena looked choked as she spoke. Then she bent closer to her audience and said in a small whisper, "Police want us to evacuate, but how on earth can we? With the roads closed off and the weather so wild, how is anyone to go anywhere?"

Luna cast a look at Caithion, who caught her knowing gaze as he delicately sipped from a glass of whiskey. They both knew it was too dangerous to raise an alarm now. With so many visitors in town for the summer fête, evacuating them all in the middle of a storm would be foolhardy.

"But I've never heard waves like these a'fore, Owena," grumbled an old man sitting by the bar. His hand was wrapped tightly round a glass of Guinness. "Ah should know, ah've lived here seventy-odd years."

"The sea wall will hold," Owena replied firmly. "It's never fallen yet."

"That wall doesn't protect the lighthouse," the old man stated grimly.

A crash of sea spray against the windows made everyone in the pub jump (excepting, of course, for the two oddballs sitting at a table, playing chess).

In that moment, Luna noticed a small face, framed by curly wheat-coloured hair, anxiously peeking around the bar, and quickly recognised her as Morwen Potts, the very same little girl Luna had passed a letter to from the church ghost-boy earlier in the day. Morwen had half-hazardly pulled a waterproof jacket on over her pyjamas and tucked the ends of her stripy bottoms into a pair of red Wellington boots. Curiously, Luna watched as the small girl crept away into the kitchen behind the bar. A back door opened and closed quietly, but the sound and the brief breeze went unnoticed.

She frowned and began to stand up when Caithion caught her wrist.

"You can't follow her without being seen," he stated calmly, taking a drink with his free hand. "A distraction might be in order."

Luna smiled brightly. "Yes, that would do. Thank you. But what kind of distraction do you think?"

Caithion only nodded shortly then stood up from his seat. He dwarfed everyone in the large room by at least three inches, the top of his head bumping against the hanging candelabra with its flickering candles. His bright eyes slanted as they scanned the room carefully, then, when he found what he was looking for, he raised one long arm and pointed at a weedy looking man in a corner.

"You."

The young man almost fell out of his seat in alarm.

"_Me?_" he asked in a small, quivering voice.

"Sing."

"_Sing?_"

"I didn't ask you to mime, I asked you to sing. This is a pub, isn't it? Pubs are meant for singing. Start a good one, something we all know, something…," he took a deep breath and closed his eyes as though thoroughly repulsed by what he had to say next, "…_cheerful._"

Luna left through the back door in the kitchen, barely able to keep the smile off her face as the music broke out behind her, people and musicians having quickly joined in the nervous man's singing. Briefly she wondered if Caithion had chosen to join in the sudden merriment himself.

Quietly, Luna opened the back door and slid out into the storm. The weather outside was wilder than she had expected. The wind whipped up her long hair and flapped through her clothes. Rain stung her eyes as she struggled forwards; she could just make out the little figure of Morwen Potts running down the sloping road by the sea wall towards the horn of the bay, where Bellrock Lighthouse stood. The tower's blinking light was barely visible through the squall.

The gale roared above Luna as she scrambled down the slippery slope. Behind, the street lamps and lights in all the little bungalows and cottages were beginning to flicker until finally, with one last sputter, they winked out altogether. Luna wrapped her numb fingers around her wand. Perhaps it was instinct or experience, but somehow she knew the storm wasn't natural. This was the Loathly Woman's rage. Luna could feel her fury on the wind and every now and again she thought she could hear a voice amidst the crashing waves.

At last she rounded the corner of the sea wall, where the rocky alcove which was the platform for Bellrock Lighthouse came up to meet the land. Luna could only stare in fascination at the sight that greeted her: the lighthouse was dwarfed in size by the waves that were crashing and clawing against it, and as she squinted through the lashing rain, Luna could see the white spray form and take shape. Hundreds of hands were now clawing and grasping at the white tower, searching and demanding entrance.

Morwen was scrambling over what remained of the rocky alcove above sea level. A huge wave shot into the air, like an enormous paw, and came thundering down to bat her into the water. Luna ran, wand outstretched and shouting against the storm. The wave was thrust aside by her spell, but she knew she wouldn't be able to cross the alcove and protect them both at the same time. She tucked her wand safely into a jacket pocket and leapt onto the slippery rocks.

The door of the lighthouse suddenly cracked open a peep and Flaversham's heavily lined face peered out at them in alarm. He began shouting at Morwen, waving her off with his hand, but the small girl was not deterred and now Luna was only a few feet away from her.

The wind screamed. Water drenched them. Luna tried to keep her grip on the jagged rocks, but her hands were too numb to hold on – Morwen was already in the sea. The current caught her, or was it a hand around her ankle, and she was dragged into the sea, salt-water filling her nose and mouth. She groped determinedly for Morwen, finally catching her by the wrist, and together they began to kick up to the surface, but it suddenly seemed miles above them.

**oOo**

Fred, George and Nox arrived just in time to glimpse Luna and Flaversham's granddaughter before they were swept from the alcove by the nymph's long watery fingers.

"Blimey!" Fred bellowed against the wind. "Tell me I wasn't the only one who saw that?"

Nox spun towards George, grasping his sleeve urgently. "George, do something!"

George nodded darkly and made a hasty advance towards the sea wall, scrambling on top of it where the wall was at its lowest point. The wind and sea spray were blinding, and more than once George nearly lost his balance on the wall's slippery surface. He flung his wand out towards the place where Luna and Morwen had plunged into the sea, shouting his spell.

To Nox's great astonishment, two bodies emerged three feet above the water, coughing and spluttering, and held aloft in an enormous bubble.

"You two all right?" George hollered over the waves, drawing them back towards the shore with a flick of his wand. The charm wouldn't last long in the weather.

The bubble burst when they reached the sea wall and Luna happily grasped his offered hand, stepping lightly onto solid concrete, Morwen's arms wrapped tightly around her neck. "Of course we are," she answered brightly. "I knew you'd come for us after all."

George stared at her. "You did?"

"You wouldn't very well let us drown, would you?" Luna smiled at him.

George gave her an amused look. "Cheers, Lu, but don't go thanking me just yet," he said, attempting pull his hand out of her firm grip. He lifted Morwen into one arm and tugged Luna close to his side, then leapt onto the road, the waves clawing over the wall behind them.

"You'd better move out of here, mind," he said quickly, pulling them under the lee of the sea wall to shelter from the battering wind. "I reckon she's about to get pretty nasty. Get back to the Inn – put a couple of protective enchantments over the place too, otherwise, you know, they'll be swapping their pints for salt water."

Morwen suddenly thumped him hard on the shoulder.

"OWE!" George cried, looking slightly peeved. "What was that for?! Merlin, between kids and hags and jilted women, I'm going to return home more bruised than a peach."

"You can't leave my Granddad!" Morwen shouted, her young eyes glaring hatefully at him.

George groaned. Before working in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he had never fully understood just how cunning children could be. He sat Morwen down and simply said, "I don't intend to."

Water roared down over their heads and further up the road a chunk of the sea wall came crashing down. George caught both girls' hands and hauled them towards the spot where Nox was clinging to a lamppost for dear life. The wind slammed into them, sucking the air from their lungs as the pelted across the road. Ahead, Fred and Nox were shouting and pointing wildly at something behind them.

George darted around. A figure was standing amongst the waves; a nymph of mist and water, with small cruel eyes that smirked triumphantly. Her hair was driving out in long twisting tendrils towards them, but George and Luna were already prepared.

"_Incendio!"_

Two great jets of fire exploded from both wands, tearing headlong into the torrent of sea water. Momentarily blinded by the boiling hot steam that had exploded into the air, and deafened by the hiss and the furious scream that followed, no one noticed or heard the small cry Morwen uttered when a slithering tendril caught her by the ankle.

Everyone stopped in horror; the nymph was rising high above them, amidst the towering waves, one watery hand wrapped tightly around the girl's throat. Her eyes, so similar to Hati's, moved coldly over the shore. Then a low, choked hiss came from her sea-green lips, "_Return it."_

Flaversham was standing outside the lighthouse, clinging to its slimy walls in terror.

Nox gripped George's arm tightly. "She wants the comb," she whispered gravely. "It was meant for Hati, but Flaversham never gave it to her."

Fred's eyes widened. "Well why didn't you say so?" he asked impatiently. "Here, chuck it in and be done with it then!"

"No." Nox shook her head. "Flaversham is the one who wronged her – well, who wronged Hati – so he's got to be the one who gives the comb back to the nymph, otherwise she'll flood the town." Nox peered at the nymph calmly. "Won't you?"

"_Clever Muggle,"_ her voice trickled out and Morwen struggled in her rippling fingers.

George nodded and glanced at Fred through the corner of his eye. "Well then, looks like a diversion is called for," he muttered softly. "Oh, and an errand boy."

Fred grinned and winked at him, knowingly. "As it happens I know just the one."

Together, they each clamped a hand down on Nox's shoulders, grinning. "We nominate you!"

"What?!" Nox spluttered, edging away from the twins.

"Go on, Nox, now's your chance to shine!" said George, pushing her towards the alcove.

"We'll take care of her Fishyness if you deliver that little knick-knack to Flaversham," Fred explained as though it was easy as pie. Nox eyed the alcove – the treacherous rocks were barely above the water now. She turned several shades of green.

"No thanks, I think I've shone enough. Besides, I'm not a strong swimmer," she protested lamely.

But her objections went ignored; the twins were already launching into battle, George giving his wand a menacing flick in the nymph's direction, who batted his spell away like a cat with a toy mouse.

Fred threw Nox an easy salute, calling, "Good luck! Try not to drown!" then took off through the air like a silver bullet.

Luna suddenly entwined her fingers around Nox's hand, tugging it gently. "I can help you get there safely," she said and before the detective could protest, the world turned topsy-turvy, rain, spray and sea spinning around their heads. The next moment they landed with a heavy thump and a _crack_ outside the entrance to the Bellrock Lighthouse.

"Hmm, sorry, I've never been very good at landing," Luna admitted plainly, "and it's much harder in this weather."

Nox staggered against the wind, feeling sick and very queasy. "Luna - NEVER - do - that - to - me - again," she said severely, clutching her rolling stomach, adding for good measure, "_Ever!"_

Luna wiped the matted hair from her eyes, beaming with something close to amusement. "Oh, don't worry, you will get used to it. Apparition is mostly safe. Unless you're splinched of course. That can be really quite nasty. There was a girl from Woking who tried to Apparate over to France and lost her nose somewhere over the English Channel."

Above them sea spray rained over the lighthouse, the tips of the white coils shifting and transforming into thousands of tiny hands which plummeted towards them. Nox threw her weight against Luna and they crouched in the doorway. Suddenly they noticed Flaversham cowering next to them, helpless and gawking wild-eyed at the storm.

Fred and George seemed to be involved in a furious game of cat and mouse with the nymph, who was so distracted by their seamless teamwork she had been forced to leave Morwen clinging desperately to the sea wall. For a moment, Nox could only watch transfixed as the twins increased their tag-team; Fred's silvery ghost buzzing around the furious waves and making a perfect distraction for George to hurl one explosive spell after the other. Enraged, the nymph raised her hand and ropes of seaweed spun towards him, but George deflected them with ease, tying them into a bow in mid air with a mocking Cheshire Cat smile.

Nox pushed the thick wet hair out of her face and shook her head with an ironic smile; the twins were pranksters to the core, even in the midst of battle. She dug into her coat pocket and drew out the silver comb, turning to the old toymaker without further delay.

"Here." She pressed it firmly into his palm. "Give it back to her."

"What?" The old man peered at her through the lashing rain as though she was crazy. Then realisation dawned on his lined face. "You again!" he shouted, venomously. "This palaver all _your_ doing then? I told you not to interfere!"

"No, frankly, this is your mess. We're the ones cleaning it up!" she bit back angrily. "You recognise the shape that water nymph has taken, don't you? Efranda Hati ring a bell?"

The old man shook his head and growled. "Don't know what you're on about."

"Ah, I see," Luna began, dreamily and pointed at the silver comb, "the nymph has taken the form of someone you knew, someone you wronged. You know, if you hand that back to her she should stop all this."

The old man clutched the comb possessively to his chest. "It's not her's. It's not no-one's but my own! I won't let anyone have it. I did nothing wrong!"

The waves stormed towards the wall and George was almost caught by the huge hand that charged along with it. He Apparated just in time, caught Morwen in his arms, and then Disapparated with another _crack_ before the nymph threw her watery fists against the sea wall, crumbling the concrete into the sea.

"Look, your granddaughter is in danger!" pleaded Nox. "She's the only one who's stood up for you! Do you really want to let her down?"

Flaversham squeezed the comb tighter in his fists until Nox thought, with a creeping dread, that the delicate teeth might snap under the pressure. She shot a concerned glance at Luna, but the dizzy girl seemed perfectly at ease, as though she were miles away from the storm and the wild waves, and the malicious water nymph intent on drowning them all. Luna simply laid her hand on Flaversham's wrist, the tiniest glint of a smile in her misty eyes. Hesitantly, the old man renounced his death grip on the comb and stepped out from under the cover of the doorway. With one last pained look, he tossed the comb into the water.

The nymph turned. Almost at once, the sea relinquished its attack on the shore, the wild waves and howling wind gradually shrinking back until the rocky alcove emerged above the water and the wind was no more than a stiff breeze against their cheeks.

An astonished Fred appeared with a _crack _at Nox's side, taking in the receding storm with an impressed whistle. "Well, well, her Muggle Highness-ness isn't completely useless after all! I was well sure you were for it this time round." Nox looked doubtfully at him and he laughed cheerily. "Just my little joke, Noxykins."

"Hmm, I wonder," she said in a dry tone. "Well anyway, I think it's Luna you have to thank. She was the one who brought Flaversham round." She gave a discreet motion of her head to the old toymaker who was staring in shock at the increasingly calm sea.

"Oh yeah?" Fred shook his head disbelievingly and chortled. "Typical Luna for you; made of the right stuff, she is."

Luna smiled at him shyly. "Thank you, Fred."

"So where is this nymph now?" Fred enquired. "Gone back to the ocean, eh?"

Just as he spoke, they noticed a rippling amongst the waves. Slowly, the nymph rose up from the water until she stood waist-deep and close to her rock. The Loathly Woman no longer had the appearance of a young Hati, but of a lithe, web-handed creature with sea-green scales. Water streamed from her long, seaweed tresses and she watched Flaversham carefully, her face impassive but no longer cruel. The old man met her gaze.

"_You have your soul again,_" she told the toymaker. "_Careful how you use it._"

She moved through the water towards them, a piece of glass, dull and worn around the edges, held between her webbed fingers. For a horrible moment Nox thought the nymph might try to stab the old man, but the watery hand reached out towards her instead.

"_This belongs to your friend,_" the nymph hissed, casting a short but appreciative look at Fred's ghostly figure. Curiously, Nox accepted the delicate shard of glass.

"What is it?" she asked.

"_You don't know?_" the nymph countered and her eyes glittered amusement. "_Then it is not for me to say. I hope you are cleverer than you look._" She chuckled, a trickling, chilling sound, and began to sink back beneath the waves. "_Otherwise, you'll be no match for the Snow Queen._" The nymph's gaze swung back to Fred. "_Her servant has already crossed the threshold of your house.__ Be wary, she is an old enemy._"

Nox turned to Luna questioningly, but she only shrugged her sodden shoulders and Fred looked just as befuddled by this information as she was.

When they reached the shore the clouds were already beginning to break apart. Flaversham rushed towards his granddaughter, grabbing her in a fierce hug. A very un-amused George was bobbing in the water, his fingers grappling with the smooth concrete surface of the sea wall.

A pale hand plunged over the wall and into the high tide, dragging the waterlogged twin from the choppy water. Fred, Luna and Nox hurried towards George, who was being heaved rather unceremoniously onto the wall by the scruff of his bottle-green coat.

"C-Cheers…" George sputtered. "Got caught off guard with that last wave."

"Oh, I didn't do that for free," smooth Irish tones replied, plainly. Caithion plucked a sopping wet packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and sighed irritably.

George blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked uncertainly.

"Next week: paid overtime." Caithion paused thoughtfully, then added in a lazy after tone, "And a half." He flicked his lighter open and lit the end of one very soggy cigarette. Remarkably, it took and George gagged on the cloud of acrid smoke promptly blown in his face.

"Just put me back in the water," he wheezed. "I've had enough of bloody contracts."

A thick, woollen throw was thrown over his head. Everyone looked up. Hati had arrived with a heap of blankets in her arms, a look of deep relief on her face. Ran was peering curiously around her skirt at his uncle Flaversham and young Morwen.

"I saw you talking to her out there." The old witch looked imploringly at them. "Is it over then?"

Nox smiled and nodded. "It's over. Flaversham returned the comb."

Hati clutched her chest and breathed deeply. "Thank heavens above!" She draped a blanket around each of their shoulders, including Caithion who looked very odd draped as he now was in a long tartan throw-rug. Finally the witch looked down at the remaining two blankets gathered in her arms. Hesitantly, she turned and offered them to the two Potts who stood a little way off from the gathered group by the sea wall. After a very uncomfortable moment of silence, Flaversham nodded meekly. A small smile lit Hati's features.

Fred and George began to saunter off in the direction of the Hanging Dog Inn, grinning.

"Come on, you lot, doubt they fancy an audience right now," George commented, dryly.

"Barking, love is," said Fred, shaking his head, "completely bonkers."

**oOo**

They gathered in the pub for the remainder of the evening, Owena Potts having cleared a table for them close to the hearth. George had already used an air-dry charm on each of them, excepting Fred who had no such need for one, but the log fire gave off a welcomed heat and the warm glow lit a hunger in them for food and drink. Fred grinned to himself. All the salt water George and his detective had swallowed must have made them very thirsty. He counted the empty glasses on the table and Luna, who was snoozing lightly amongst them. She had dozed off after her first half-pint, a wide contented smile on her face.

Nox was at the bar currently buying up whatever round they were now on. Caithion was beside her, deep in conversation with Owena Potts.

"I don't think he saw anything," said George, eyeing the Irishman.

"I still don't trust that bloke as far as I can throw him," Fred grumbled.

"So, did you get it?" George suddenly asked. His tone was casual, but Fred knew his twin was worrying on the inside.

He sighed and put his chin in his hands. George wasn't going to like his answer. "Nope. She did."

"Who did?" George looked at him, alarmed, but Fred stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. "_Who_ got it, Fred?"

"I did," said Nox, calmly. Fred and George looked sharply up at her. She was holding the glass shard in her hand, its beautiful silvery-blue sheen gleaming like moonstone in the orange firelight.

Nox cast a careful look across her shoulder. Caithion was still standing talking at the bar. Luna was fast asleep. She sat down in front of the twins and took a deep breath.

"Now, I think it's time you two came clear with me." Before either Fred or his twin could interrupt, Nox raised a finger and cleared her throat, firmly. "There are a couple of questions I want answered – no, strike that, there's a few questions I want answered actually. Like, how is it that I can really see _all this?_ Swamp hags, werewolves, water nymphs, _wizards_. I find it hard to believe the gift of 'second sight' resides within a jammy dodger," she said sarcastically. "And your curse, Fred – I mean you want me to help get you off the hook, but you still haven't told me what or who you're on the run from." She gave them both a piercing stare. "It's not going to take a few 'trivial, menial tasks', is it?" she quoted Fred in a wry tone of voice. Then, reluctantly, she placed the shard of glass onto the table. "I saw you pocket one just like it at Rosewood, George. These aren't just normal cases, are they?"

Nox leaned back in her seat and ran her fingers through her short hair, exhausted and confused; she had the look of someone battling an internal conflict. "If I'm going to risk my life for you, I'd like to know why." She looked at the twins a little regretfully. "Otherwise, you can forget the whole deal."

George half-glanced at Fred, then turned an easy grin on the young detective. "Don't be daft, Nox. We've told you mostly everything-"

"Don't bother, George," said Fred abruptly. The grin instantly vanished from his twin's face. George shot him a warning glance which Fred ignored. He steepled his semi-transparent fingers and gave Nox a long, scrutinising stare until she squirmed a little in her chair. Finally, he smiled. "Alright, then. The jammy dodger – you're right, it was nothing special. No magic involved whatsoever. Call it a mind trick if you want. You're bright enough that you can see past the end of your nose, which helped you find our house in the first place, but just because you found the place didn't necessarily mean you would be able to see me. Not without a helping hand, anyway. George showed you just enough of the house to get your imagination racing and the jammy dodger was a just prop we used to exact a certain persuasion over your mind." A smile crossed his lips. "In a word, you tricked yourself."

Nox seemed to mull over this idea for a few minutes, hesitated, then said, "And the curse?"

Fred looked amused. "All right, all right, if you really want to know… the house cursed me."

Nox looked surprised. "How's that possible?"

George shrugged gloomily. "We're mostly in the dark ourselves where that one's concerned."

"Best guess," Fred continued, "the original owner placed the curse on the house in order to bump off anyone unworthy of owning the place. I crossed the threshold first, so the curse hit me. Like I said to you in the beginning, mind, there is a way out of it."

George sipped his beer then began carefully, "You remember how we told you about Audra Beckinsale's soul?" Nox nodded slowly and George produced a piece of parchment and handed it towards her. She read carefully. The ink on the parchment had run in several places due to its recent swim in the sea, but it was just about legible.

"'_Enter__ stranger to the house of Nevermore',_" Nox repeated. She looked up at them. "It's a riddle."

"Yeah, we figured _Nevermore _is the house – Weasley Manor," said Fred.

"'_I am the beginning of eternity, the end of summer days, the beginning of every end and the end of every phase'_…" She breathed sharply. "Death. But I don't get this next bit. Who is Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus?"

"They're characters from an old wizard fairytale," George explained. "Supposedly, they met Death on their travels and he gave them each a gift."

"The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone and the Invisibility Cloak," Fred supplied. "It's unlikely that they really met old Grim-bones, but the three gifts are real enough."

"But then… what you're saying is that this riddle, the curse on the house, it was put there by _Death?_" she asked, disbelievingly.

George quickly shook his head, laughing. "We're wizards, we're not daft!"

"Read on," Fred urged her.

Nox skimmed over the words carefully. "'_Seek the seven sins of man'_… You mean embodiments of the Seven Deadly Sins?" She looked at George and said in a low whisper, "Then Audra and Flaversham Potts?"

"Wrath and Pride," George answered. "And this is where you come in. The next part of the riddle we had to take to our brother Bill. He's a curse breaker, see, dead good with riddles."

"Course, we couldn't tell him what we were up to, but he let us off with it after we promised him and Fleur a couple of freebies from our Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes _adult _range." Fred placed one silver glowing finger in the middle of the last two stanzas:

'_But hark, take heed!  
There is no need,  
To put much measure,  
On wizard's greatest pleasure.'_

_'For those born blind,  
But now do see,  
And put their faith  
In pen, not sword,  
Are far more like  
To win your reward.'_

"That, Noxy," Fred began, eyes gleaming, "refers to you."

"No pressure then," Nox responded after a minute. She took a hefty swig from her pint glass then asked tentatively, "What happens if you don't find these seven sins?"

"A nasty exorcism," George grunted miserably.

Fred snorted, looking amused. "Don't get morbid. That's my job; I'm fully qualified, or haven't you noticed that you can see through my head?"

"What about the glass?" Nox enquired, running her fingers along the length of the shard on the table. "Where have they come from?"

"The Muggles, but we haven't a flaming clue how they came to be inside them in the first place." Fred shook his head in frustration. "Whatever they are, they worked their magic on those Muggles well enough."

"You can't mean these… these pieces of _glass_ are responsible for Audra's and Flaversham's actions? For Catherine's murder?"

Grim-faced, George nodded in agreement. "And for Lucie's death, too."

Nox sat for a moment in stunned silence. When she spoke again, her voice was cool and not without a tone of suspicion. "There's one thing you're not telling me."

"And that is?"

"Who is the Snow Queen?"

Fred shrugged. "Got me jinxed. I haven't a clue, except for the usual fairytales, mind." He glanced at George. "That reminds me, that water nymph mentioned her to-" He paused. There was a deep frown in his twin's forehead. "George?"

"What else did she say?" George snapped.

"Come to think of it," Fred began hazily, "she mentioned an old enemy – something about them crossing the threshold into our house…" He didn't know why, but the memory of the nymph's warning seemed fuzzy and unimportant, as though he had received it weeks ago, not hours.

George was suddenly up on his feet and pulling their detective out the door, careful not to waken Luna or catch the attention of the tall dark Irishman by the bar. If Fred hadn't been in such a hurry to catch up to his twin, he might well have noticed the Quick-Quotes Quill and the sharp-faced woman in the acid-green robes behind him.

"Hold on, George!" Nox struggled. "What about our fee? We haven't spoken to the council yet," she complained, trying to pull out of George's grip.

"Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" Nox cried angrily as they stumbled out of the pub into the cool night air, closely followed by Fred. "This'll be the second case I've completed without pay!"

"Oi, George, what's this all about?" Fred asked a little anxious now.

George ignored them both and grabbed Nox around the shoulders. "We're Apparating out of here. We're heading back to Weasley Manor _now._"

Nox tensed and tried to shrug him off, but his grip was too strong. "But what about Caithion and Luna? You can't very well leave them here!"

"They managed here fine by themselves," George replied. "They'll manage home just as well. Now, ready?"

"No!"

"Great! One, two, three-"

Both twins turned on the spot and together they disappeared through the darkness with Nox in tow, squeezing between the cracks in time and space until they landed heavily on the purple and white chequered floor of Weasley Manor. Almost immediately, familiar laughter rang in their ears, mad and cackling; a sound that Fred was sure they'd been rid of for five years. He snapped his head towards George. His twin was staring in horror at a figure soaring high above them. It halted directly beneath the great dome of Weasley Manor, peering down at them gleefully. Her body might have been long since dead and buried, but her silver face was still very much alive with malice.

Fred glared hatefully and George growled, "_Bellatrix._"

"_Little Freddie Weasley got hit by a rock _-" The ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange threw her silver head back in one fluid feline movement and sneered in triumph at the look of sheer disbelief on their faces. "- _Stick, stock, stone dead, see how he dropped!_"

**oOo  
**

* * *

******A/N:** Man I really do suck at writing action scenes (sigh). But Bella's back!! She's going to be a fecking awesome villain to write. Ooh, and Rita Skeeter. Rita's going to strike up a deal with the Muggle detective, Argos Thickley. Whoo! I feel like the actual _plot_ of this damned story is beginning to take shape! Please review and let me know what you thought of this chapter – hopefully it was less confusing than the last chap XD 


	14. The Demon Parade

**A/N:** Thank you for all the brilliant reviews for the last chapter guys! Hope you're all having a great run-up to Christmas. The Twin Vice Christmas competition has been fantastic! Check out the fanart links in my Profile here. Oh, and I switched the second prize to Fred & George figures (apparently you don't get them in America - what gives? Mental). Anyway, here's the long awaited Halloween special. Next couple of chapters are also taking a break from the casebook for a Christmas special. I'm such a festive git. Enjoy!

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**The Demon Parade

**oOo**

Silver eyes glinted through the murk of Weasley Manor's entrance hall and a scream of raucous laughter shattered the air. Nox ducked alongside George as the ghost of the woman named Bellatrix swooped towards them, cackling wildly, but before the shrieking spectre could reach them, Fred was there, blocking her path. Bellatrix halted in mid-flight, the cruel smile never leaving her sharp pale face for a moment.

Nox peered around George's shoulder. While she was fairly sure ghosts could not inflict any real damage on a living person, she realised that her knowledge of them was really only limited to Fred, who she was positive was not a standard model by any means.

The twins looked furious. Nox had never seen them look so angry before. She could almost feel Fred's hatred for the woman before them crackling around his glowing body like electricity.

"Give us one good reason why we shouldn't hex you all the way to the Ministry's front door," Fred growled, cracking his fist menacingly.

"Itty, bitty, Fweddie," drawled Bellatrix, stroking a finger along his cheek which he angrily batted away. "We finally have something in common."

Fred cocked an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Really? You enjoy long summer strolls followed by a romantic dinner out too? Blimey, what a coincidence," he said, though his voice had lost all humour. "We should've hooked up years ago."

Bellatrix merely ignored him, a sneer crawling all over her gaunt, skull-like head. "Still using humour as a weapon, little boy? I heard you laughed in the face of death too. When they picked you out of the rubble you were still grinning your pathetic head off. Suppose it'd be prudent for me to apologise for blowing you up. Sadly I can't take all the blame. Rookwood took a share in that honour."

Suddenly, George cut in front of Fred, his face mere inches from Bellatrix. "Get out," he snarled, fists clenched and shaking uncontrollably. "Get out now."

"Or what? You'll set your _MUMMY_ on me again?!" Bellatrix screamed wrathfully, her sunken eyes glaring hatefully. The walls of Weasley Manor began to grind and groan as if the very foundations of the building were trembling with her rage. "Filthy Muggles and blood-traitors – you don't belong in _his_ house! None of you are worthy to cross the threshold, to sleep under this roof, to utter a word with your disgusting, unworthy, tongues-"

"GET – OUT!" George bellowed, his voice echoing through the entire household.

Bellatrix suddenly quieted. Nox could not stop herself from recoiling. There was something even more ominous and terrifying about the dead woman's silence. Another smile lit the spectre's silvery eyes and she licked her blue lips hungrily.

"You think the Great War's finished, don't you? But the House of Slytherin isn't finished with you yet," Bellatrix whispered triumphantly. "Daft and blind and underestimating as usual, but she's already caught ickle Freddie in her trap. There's a storm coming, like none your undeserving eyes have ever seen." Bellatrix grinned, her harsh, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing into mere glowing slits as her body began to fade into nothingness. "We'll go round to the beginning and back again, oh yes, because the old stories are always the best! We'll see how you match up to the Her."

They stared in disbelief at the spot where Bellatrix Lestrange had disappeared. After a long moment of stunned silence, Fred took a deep breath and turned around. "Well! That did put a damper on an otherwise lovely weekend."

George shot him a cautionary glance. His face was drained of colour and he looked utterly exhausted, but he did not pause in the hallway another second. Instead he began to stride purposefully across to the chequered floor to the door entitled _Phineas Codex_.

"Oi, George -"

"I'm going to the Ministry," he muttered shortly. "Then I'm going home to check on Mum. Don't leave Nox under any circumstances, I'll be back as soon as possible."

Fred and Nox exchanged a puzzled look as George disappeared through the door.

**oOo**

"He gets so bloody serious these days." Fred was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his detective's bedroom, leaning his chin on one hand while the fingers of his other drummed restlessly against his knee. "His head's stuffed with too much thinking." He laughed very bitterly. "I always warned him thinking too much would have him sodded."

"Well what do you expect?" Nox replied. He could hear the rustle of clothing behind him as she changed into her pyjamas. "It's only been two weeks since Lucy was killed and since then we've been running around like headless chickens all over the country. I'm sure George is just stressed, he hasn't had time to really compute anything."

"This is more than stress," Fred grumbled. "Look, if you don't mind, keep your conk out of this one, all right?"

The rustling stopped a moment and he could feel her eyes on him. Then he heard her sigh softly and continue changing.

"Why are you sighing?"

"I'm allowed to sigh in my own room, thank you. If you don't want to hear me sigh, go outside."

"I can't. I've got to baby-sit you."

"I didn't ask you to."

"And I didn't ask for Bonkers Bella to come tearing into our home, either." Fred felt irritated with Nox, but he could not for the death of him pinpoint why. Maybe it was because he was so angry at George and she was just a handy victim to release his temper on. It wasn't fair, but he felt too frustrated to care much. "Aren't you changed yet?"

"Give me a moment."

"You know, I can see you in the mirror," he remarked offhandedly. "Not that there's much to see. Flat as a pancake, you are."

"What?" she spluttered and turned sharply around, knocking a picture frame on her bedside table onto the floor. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You never asked," said Fred, bluntly.

"Bloody pervert."

She shot him an irritable glare then bent down to pick up the fallen pewter picture frame, the inhabitants of which were grinning, frozen, against the glass. Fred peered at the photograph and instantly recognised a younger Nox looking flustered and cross in her father's strangling embrace, the tall figure of Caithion Sidhe lurking behind them like a shadow. Nox brushed her thumb across the smooth glass then set it down on the table. It was strange, he mused, to see her act so personal, even affectionate. He shifted uncomfortably. Edward Balthazar McRozen was a touchy subject.

Nox climbed into bed then, to his surprise, she sighed jadedly and beckoned him over.

Fred smirked. "Sure this is a purely professional arrangement? Wouldn't want to go wrecking our already dysfunctional working relationship."

Nox shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "Suit yourself, lie on the floor then."

"No, no! Bed's fine." Fred stretched out along the bottom of the four-poster bed then turned to face her on his side. "So! Tell me honestly, why did you decide to sign that contract? Was it my irrepressible charm, my debonair wit or my roguish good looks?" He beamed. "Or all three?"

"You forgot to list _profound pervertry_ as one of your highly admirable traits," Nox quipped, leaning over to pluck a book from a nearby shelf which she then began to flip through absently. "Not to mention your uncanny knack for getting us into trouble, though I daresay if you found a way to power protective shields around us with your ego, we'd be invincible." She stopped skimming through her book, looking thoughtful. "I think I knew from the moment I met you two that you'd mean nothing but trouble for me, but nevertheless, I wanted to stay here in this house. It already feels like home, but I haven't even stayed here one night. I can't explain it." Her eyes met his momentarily and Fred caught the flash of her throat as she swallowed. "…Never mind."

Fred rolled onto his back and slid his hands behind his head. "You really are a Muggle." He smirked. "But you're not a half-bad detective."

"Thanks." She smiled and turned off the light. "You're not a half-bad ghost."

**oOo**

Perhaps it was just because she had been so busy lately, but Nox could barely believe that she had already lived and worked in Weasley Manor for three full months. After the publicity of the Rosewood and Toymaker's cases, Nox and the twins had been running around all over London chasing ghosts, ghouls and poltergeists for the city's spectre-fearing inhabitants. While most Muggles could not see ghosts and other magical creatures or spirits, it did not mean their presence went completely unnoticed all the time. Often ghosts were recognisable to Muggles by the noises they made: a cry, a knock, or footsteps perhaps. Naturally this would depend on the sensitivity of the Muggle.

Spirits were different. They came in all shapes and sizes and had more titles than the Prince of Wales: daemons, poltergeists, sprites, vengefuls.

Vengeful spirits were by far the worst. Nox had discovered that spirits on a whole did not necessarily represent a person who had died, they could take many different forms, but all were similarly created out of a powerful emotion. If that emotion was one of revenge or hatred, the spirit became a vengeful. Depending on the strength of the feeling that had created it, the spirit could manifest itself into a solid being and, like a boggart, often took the form of the thing its victim most feared. Because a vengeful had never owned a soul, it lacked reason and could therefore be a potentially nasty customer. Thankfully most vengefuls were easy enough to take care of, even without the aid of magic.

'Word Magic' was accessible even to Muggles. Shoddy TV psychics often exploited the technique on their programmes and, Nox was ashamed to admit, it was something her father had been quite adept at.

"Words have great power," he had often told her. "Kind words are full of positive energy; hurtful words are full of negative energy. To hear either too often can have a detrimental effect on our souls. The correct set of words can work very much like a mathematical equation. Discover the right phrase and you have your answer. The challenge is finding the right words."

Of course, Nox had thought him utterly off his trolley back then, but as it turned out there was some sense to her father's ramblings after all. Getting rid of vengefuls only required a bit of research because the _Word of Power_ used to control and remove them was the name of the person whose emotion had created the spirit in the first place. However, if you did not know the name, you were frankly quite buggered (as was the case, George had explained, with the Hogwarts' resident poltergeist, Peeves).

With some practise, Nox had quickly learned how to deal with vengefuls on her own, which was a good thing as the twins were spending a lot more time in their laboratory, working on a new secret line of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products for Christmas. Not only that, after the incident with the ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange back in June, Kingsley Shacklebolt had charged Fred with her protection, meaning that when she was home the Weasley ghost hung around her like a bad smell, so it was nice to get some time to herself. Besides, working independently suited her character more.

Nox stumbled across the threshold into Weasley Manor, groping at the wall for support. While most vengefuls were easy enough to get rid of, hunting them down was another task altogether and County Hall on the Thames had seemed to her to have more twists and turns than Weasley Manor. In short, she was shattered.

Dumbledore was in his portrait today, nibbling on a cheese and marmalade sandwich.

"Good morning, Miss Wolfe," he called brightly. "I'm just sharing a spot of breakfast with a friend before I head off to Hogwarts. Your latest excursion proved lucrative, I hope?"

Nox nodded, stifling a yawn. "Yes, thanks, and this time I managed to secure a payment beforehand." She pulled an envelope from her coat pocket and sighed at the number on the cover. "A hundred quid. Not much for a full night's work, but at least I can get something solid to eat today."

"Ah, well, perhaps you mightn't need to spend your well-earned pay so soon." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with merriment. "I do believe the young masters of the house are cooking something up for you this very moment."

Nox swallowed thickly. "They are, are they?"

Hesitantly, she poked her head around the door into the kitchen labelled _Phineas Codex_. Her ears were instantly subjected to two bellowed voices singing a most unusual song out of key:

'_Beautiful Soup, so rich and green!  
Waiting in a hot tureen!  
Who for such dainties would not stoop?  
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!  
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!  
Who cares for fish,  
Game, or any other dish!  
Soo-oop of the e e–e–vening, beautiful Soup!'_

"Chorus again!" cried Fred, dancing around the bubbling cauldron like a mad jester.

Nox rubbed her face in her hands and walked further into the room. "For crying out loud, what is it you're destroying now? It had better not be anything of mine again."

"Destroying?" Fred repeated, looking hurt. "Well I never!"

"What nasty, spiteful words she attacks us with, Fred," said George, grabbing his chest. "And so early in the morning too."

"Spiteful indeed," Fred agreed. "What deplorable gratitude!"

"Deplorable, nice word choice."

"Why thank you, George."

"At the thesaurus again?"

"Well I'd hardly eat this."

"Excellent point."

Nox peered past the grinning twins into the bubbling pot. The noxious fumes were beginning to turn her empty stomach already. "Is this another one of your experiments?"

Fred beamed. "You could say that."

George took the ladle and scooped up some of the murky wine-coloured liquid and offered it to her. "This is a fine new Weasleys' product I call _lunch._"

"Prepared the Muggle way for your satisfaction!" Fred proclaimed, proudly. "Figured you'd be starved when you got in, see –"

"– So we decided out of the goodness of our hearts –"

"– To take it upon our kind souls to cook for you!"

"Bottoms up!" George pushed the ladle closer to her mouth with an encouraging smile. "This stuff will grow hairs on your chest."

"Literally," added Fred. "But it'd be nice to have _something_ down there."

"What?" Nox squeaked in a tiny voice. "You're having a laugh, right? Look, I learned not to eat anything you two reprobates hand me a while ago. The moment I swallow that I'll sprout little tentacles all over my face or my hair will fall out, or I'll turn into a canary, or my fingernails will grow for three miles."

"Those were isolated cases."

"All purely accidental."

"Right. Suppose you don't remember what happened when you left a basket of Shrinking Shortbread outside my bedroom door a fortnight ago?" she snapped in a waspish tone.

Fred tossed his head and snorted, a tad arrogantly. "It's not our fault you go about hoovering up everything that's lying on the floor."

"It was addressed to me," Nox grumbled, glowering at him. "Miss G Wolfe, Weasley Manor, Room at the top of the Stairs, London, Islington," she repeated, recalling the note that had been tied to the basket with a bright red ribbon; all very innocent in appearance, but Nox had quickly regretted having accepted the gift when she later emerged from her room three feet tall.

Fred clutched his twin's shoulder, looking sorely insulted. "How do you fancy that, George? She really believes we'd use her as our own personal guinea pig."

George sighed heavily and shook his head. "It's the times, Fred. Cynics and naysayers everywhere. Very sad."

"Tragic, really."

"Breaks my heart."

"Brings a tear to my eye."

"All that slaving away in the kitchen."

"All this wasted food."

"All those starving orphans in Afghanistan."

"Poor starving orphans…"

The twins looked at her with wide, watering eyes. Fred looked especially gloomy in his ghostly non-corporeal form.

Nox sighed and rolled her eyes, then, with a weary heart, she moved to sit at the long kitchen table, holding her head in her hands and wondering if anything would ever happen in the natural way again. "Serve it up then."

"Yes, Sir!" they chorused together, suddenly very animated again.

George scooped the purple toxic liquid into a bowl and set it down in front of her with a slice of mouldy bread. Nox quirked her mouth in a wry smile; no one had any time to stock the kitchen it seemed, but she had to admit it had been kind of the twins to cook for her. She spooned a mouthful of soup down her throat.

"How's it taste, then?" Fred queried in a tone of great curiosity. "Too spicy? Too bland?"

"It's certainly not bland," she croaked with the spoon still in her mouth – tears were welling in her eyes and her nose felt hot and itchy. If food could make you see through time, she was looking a thousand years into the future.

"I told you that was too much dragon's pepper, dungbrains," George commented lightly.

"What's it taste like then?" Fred pressed her.

"Feet," Nox replied thoughtfully and removed the spoon from her mouth, setting it carefully down on the table. "It tastes like peppered feet. Let me see the recipe you used."

George handed her a tattered old cookbook covered in crumbs and tomato sauce, and pointed at a list of cooking instructions on the right hand page. "See, right here: cream of onion soup."

"But the recipe also said we could add some meat to give it a kick," said Fred.

"So we threw in an old boot for good measure."

"And that thing in the fridge."

"Including its eyes. Waste not, want not."

"Essence of Murlap."

"Liver spuds."

"Oh, Garlic."

"Salad cream."

"Dragon's pepper."

"The juice of a giant-"

Nox hastily raised her hand, a pleading look on her pale face. "Please, please stop there. I'll finish it if you just, _please_, stop there. Whatever happened to eggs and bacon?"

"Sorry, I finished the last of them," grinned George.

Just then, a roar and whoosh of emerald green flames from the kitchen fireplace caught their attention. A figure stepped out onto the hearth, brushing the soot from his shoulders and kicking his heels against the grate. He was a handsome man, dark-skinned and smiling. His black chin-length hair was braided and despite the fact that his purple trimmed clothes would look out of place even on the streets of London, Nox thought the overall effect was nothing short of _cool_.

He grinned cheerily and saluted the surprised twins by means of a greeting. "Rapier, Holey."

"Lee!" cried Fred and George together.

"Blimey o'reilly, what you doing here?" a puzzled looking George asked. "I thought you were busy abroad working the Quidditch season."

"Or did you get fired again for flirting with Angelina during a match?" Fred smirked.

Lee scowled at him. "Not fired. Suspended, thanks very much. Besides, man, just because my dearest love still holds a candle for you doesn't mean I'll give up so …Hello there…" Lee strode towards the table, stepping easily through Fred's non-corporeal body, and whipped up Nox's hand in a gentle kiss. "My greatest apologies, didn't see you when I came in there. But what, may I humbly ask, is a gorgeous desert rose doing in a shabby old place like this?"

Nox gave an apathetic half-shrug. "It's not so bad."

"Oi!" Fred hollered angrily, shaking a fist in the air. "What do you think you're doing walking through me like that? Give a little respect for the dead, would you! And this house is as clean as a whistle cheers, you cheeky bugger."

Lee gave him a cool, appraising look then wiped his finger along the tabletop and inspected the dirt he'd gathered with a critical eye. "Hm, yeah I can see that," he said sarcastically.

George happily clapped a hand on his back and laughed. "Sorry Lee, you just caught us off-guard is all. Ignore Fred. He's just jealous 'cause he's not used to handsome young wizards paying Nox any attention."

Lee's dark eyes twinkled wickedly. "Ah, right, I get you man."

"No you don't," Fred said quickly, "so you can take that train of highly explosive thought and shove it up your-"

"You must be an old friend of Fred and George," Nox interrupted, holding out her hand to shake Lee's. "I've never met any of their friends before. Except Luna. And Hermione, though I don't think she'll be back for a while after what George did to her." She shot a quick look at George who whistled innocently.

"You've met Luna Lovegood!" Lee declared in a fascinated tone, sitting down at the table with George. "Really? What do you think of her then? She round the twist or just born that way? Her dad's always been into experiments. Maybe he accidentally addled her brains a bit."

"Bollocks. Luna's just…" George paused then said with a shrug, and because he could think of no other word to describe her with, "_Luna._"

"Addled her brains?" Nox repeated, curiously.

Lee studied her bewildered face for a moment then clicked his fingers in the air. "Of course! Forgot you were a Muggle. Well, I didn't forget, I just wasn't sure that snapping croc of a witch wasn't talking a big bag of wank again." He tossed a newspaper onto the middle of the table and Nox read the black swirling letters on the cover.

"'Witch Weekly'," she read aloud. "What is this?"

"Wizarding magazine," Fred explained.

"I bring news from the outside world!" Lee continued. "One which you two hardly ever dip your toes into, I'll add." He waved his hands at the twins before they could batter him with excuses. "Ah don't bother, heard it all before. You're _working_, I know. And it looks like you've replaced me too with a newer cuter model." Lee's eyes sparkled and he gave Nox a very sultry look. "Can't honestly blame you. Anyway, take a look at this. You're not going to like it, man, believe me."

He turned a few pages then pointed at an article brandishing a moving photo of the twins at the top. Both looked a few years younger, standing together outside a brightly decorated shop that had been cordoned off with a red ribbon, one arm thrown around the others neck and cackling gleefully. In their free hands they brandished a pair of gleaming gold scissors. The shop window behind them read: _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!_

Nox glanced at George. There was no wistful smile on his face as he looked at the old photograph. Her gaze returned to the article. It was written by someone named Rita Skeeter. Her heart jumped in her chest. Hadn't Rita Skeeter been the woman Hati had warned her of three months ago?

'_Fred Gideon Weasley, tragic hero of the Battle of Hogwarts who brought  
shame on the Weasley family household by returning as a ghost, seems  
to have broken yet another wizarding taboo in his long history of mischief-making,  
writes Rita Skeeter, award-winning authoress of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._  
In July of this year, Fred Weasley and his twin, George – a recluse now  
living in a dilapidated old house in London after his brother's tragic death  
– hoodwinked a Miss Gertrude N. Wolfe, Muggle, into enlisting in a brand  
new business venture. Why, might you ask, has the Ministry allowed the  
employment of a Muggle by a wizard – a dead one, no less – when the  
revealing of magic to ordinary people is strictly prohibited?_

"_Very simply, today's world is no different from medieval times past where  
witch burnings and trials were common fold," states Berta Bane of the  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "And as much as we might like it,  
wizards and Muggles simply cannot live side by side. There would be  
jealousy, distrust, perhaps even war. While we at the Ministry applaud and  
encourage Muggle-wizard partnerships, we do not condone partnerships  
forged purely for profit. To employ a Muggle is foolhardy and reckless."_

_But could Fred Weasley's partnership with Miss Gertrude Wolfe be something  
other than a working relationship? The spectral co-founder of Weasleys'  
Wizard Wheezes has been caught on several occasions together with  
Miss Wolfe, a dowdy, featureless woman of 24, throughout London city._

'_Fred Weasley has always been a bit of a cad. He's broken 'undreds of  
'earts,' says Amelia Raddish, one time lover of the notorious prankster.  
'Why should he stop now? I'd like to warn this girl that she ain't the  
first and she definitely ain't gonna be the last.'_

_It is yet another bitter twist in the Weasley family's tragic story, who  
suffered enough misfortune during the Last War. The relationship between  
Fred and George Weasley and their family took a rocky turn when it  
appeared the deceased prankster had returned to the living. Devastated,  
Mrs M. Weasley refused to see either of her sons, prompting the Weasley  
twins to disown their family altogether. Fred Weasley's further discretions  
are yet another knock to this fragile family, but to add insult to injury,  
the ghost of Dark Witch and follower of You-Know-Who, Bellatrix Lestrange,  
killed in the Battle of Hogwarts by Molly Weasley, has been sighted around  
the Weasley brothers' Manor in Islington. Eyewitnesses say the exchange  
between Bellatrix Lestrange and Fred and George Weasley was that shared  
between old friends. Could this mean that the Weasley brothers, once  
famed for their courage and heroics at the Battle of Hogwarts, were  
actually in the employment of the Dark Lord? As for Miss Wolfe; could  
she be the first in a line of Muggle slaves the Weasleys have befuddled  
into serving them? One must wonder how Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes  
products are tested after all. Ministry Officials are sure to look into  
this most urgent of matters immediately –'_

Nox finished reading. "That's terrible."

"Yeah," Fred nodded. "It's also a pile of piss."

"Actually I meant you," she said coolly. "Cad."

Fred looked crestfallen and Lee bellowed with laughter. "Yeah, that bit's true enough. You've no idea how many young and innocent female hearts dashing _Rapier_ here cheated me out of. Even now – leading my poor fragile Angie astray."

Fred bristled under Lee's easy mocking smile.

"I can't believe that old croc," grumbled George, thumping his fist on the table. "How'd she know what we're up to anyway?"

"You think Dedalus blabbed?" muttered Fred.

"Well it couldn't be Harry or Kingsley, could it?" George studied the article carefully. "Dedalus does get a bit chatty after a few pints at the Leaky Cauldron. Bet that old witch was eavesdropping on him. Either that or she's following us around, the nosey bat. Lee, you haven't heard anything…?"

Lee shrugged. "Beats me, but Rita's got it well in for the both of you after what happened."

"'What happened'," Nox repeated. "Do you have _any_ acquaintances who aren't enemies?" she scoffed, lightly.

"That's cheek coming from you," said Fred.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Fred shrugged. "Only that you were practically a hermit before we fished you out and hired you. At least people out there know we exist."

"Hired me?" she exclaimed in an annoyed tone. "Lest you forget, this is_ my_ business. I hired you. And I can just as easily un-hire you."

"Sorry, your Highness, I'd better watch my step then. Wouldn't dream of getting fired," Fred said, very sarcastically. "After all, working with you is such a pleasure."

"Well what did you do to Rita Skeeter?" Nox queried persistently. "You didn't dump her at the altar did you?"

"Really, your opinion of me is so low," Fred grunted. "George and I merely taught her a valuable lesson in morals."

She smirked. "You? Morals?"

He glared. "Yeah – _me – MORALS._ See, Rita Skeeter did one of her famous exposés on Dumbledore, our old headmaster," Fred began. "Dumbledore was a genius – "

"Mental," George added.

"Completely barkers," agreed Lee.

"But a genius nonetheless," finished Fred. "And a bloomin' brilliant headmaster to boot. Really made Hogwarts, he did. But then he was killed in a, er, series of unfortunate events and shortly after that, Rita here published his biography."

"Only it was a load of codswallop. There's not two truths in the whole bloody thing to string together," said Lee, casually dipping a spoon into the bowl of soup in front of Nox, taking a sip and promptly gagging, much to Fred's amusement.

"Mind you, I wouldn't be surprised if old Dumbledore _was_ bent as a bottle of chips," said Fred, musingly. "But the way that witch went off implying that he dragged little kiddies into his office for, what was it again, 'extra lessons' – it was sick. We couldn't let her off with it…"

"…So Fred had the idea to jinx her Quick Quotes Quill at her book signing seminar in Flourish and Blotts." George clasped his hands, looking very smug with himself. "Every time she signed a copy of _The Life and Times of Albus Dumbledore_ it told a truth about her; something she didn't want the public to know."

"So you gave her a taste of her own medicine." Nox smiled. "No wonder she hates you."

"Merlin, I almost forgot!" Lee suddenly exclaimed and began digging about in his cloak pockets, eventually drawing out three pale blue envelopes which he handed to George. "From one Luna Lovegood. Met her in town yesterday. She was going to come over herself, but something about a firedrake hatching held her up. Don't ask me, man, you know her better than I do. Which brings me to another question – how in Merlin's sweaty knacks did Luna come under your employment?"

George jabbed his thumb in Fred's direction. "That was Sir Rapier's idea, but so far it's been a pretty profitable partnership. Luna's a brilliant naturalist. Brings us stuff back from all over the world. Just last week we got a massive batch of Erlking oil. You any idea how rare that stuff is?"

"Hm, yeah, sounds real profitable," Lee agreed, though his tone was sly. "And you know, she sure talked you up a treat yesterday." His dark eyes were gleaming. "Actually, she _only_ talked about you. For half an hour. In the pouring rain. Damn near fell in love with you myself."

George pretended not to hear him, becoming deeply engrossed in prodding the lumps floating about in Nox's soup.

Lee smirked and handed another letter to George. "Here's another one, addressed to …Caithion. Who's he?"

As if in answer the doorbell rang, high-pitched and deafeningly loud, making them all jump in their chairs around the table.

"That should be him now," said Nox pushing away from the table and leaving the kitchen. When she passed the portrait that occasionally housed Albus Dumbledore, she paused a moment. Had Rita Skeeter really made those awful allegations against Dumbledore? He had always seemed like a kindly old man to her; perhaps hiding great secrets behind those twinkling eyes and half-moon glasses, yes, but still kindly. Indeed, if it hadn't been for Dumbledore, Nox wasn't sure she would have crossed the threshold into Weasley Manor in the first place (though whether this was a good thing or not still remained to be seen).

She opened the front door and was immediately met with an explosion of party poppers and orange and black silly-string. Caithion Sidhe, the Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives' cool and aloof secretary, stood on the doorstep looking as he always did: wholly unimpressed, dressed in black and smoking a cigarette. Only today he had decided to decorate his shirt collar with a bat-wing bowtie.

He removed the cigarette momentarily from his lips and nodded at her. "Boo."

Nox raised an eyebrow, looking equally unimpressed in her wig of silly-string. "Pardon me?"

Caithion pulled off his long coat as he stepped across the threshold, dumping it over her head as he entered the hallway. "My dear, you take employment as a Paranormal Detective and yet today's date of all dates escapes you. That's somewhat shameful. You might want to check your calendar now and again."

Nox stared at his retreating back, perplexed. "But I don't … Oh! You mean it's Halloween? I totally forgot about it."

Caithion stopped on the staircase, half turning to her. "Indeed. There will be a lot to do tonight." There was a ghost of a smile on his pale face. "Miss Lovegood has asked us to dinner."

Nox frowned. "How did you know? We have your invitation here."

Caithion gave her an appraising sort of look, then said, "Brilliant men have their ways."

**oOo**

"So…_She's_ interesting."

"No," Fred snapped back, irritably. "She's bloody clueless."

"Ah." Lee smiled. "She's cute."

"You what?" Fred shook his pale head. "Mad. You must be wearing butterbeer-goggles."

"Is that so?" Lee continued smiling serenely. "Maybe the old croc got something right for once."

George scooped up the soup bowl in one hand and made a hasty retreat to the sink where towers of dirty dishes teetered precariously.

Fred steepled his fingers and rested his chin on top of them, smiling benignly at his friend. "Think all this fame and celebrity status has thrown you for a loop, mate. Your head's gone all funny."

Lee steepled his fingers in like and grinned. "Hm, I wonder."

"Don't know about your imaginings, but my relationship with Nox is strictly of a boss-employee kind," Fred declared, waving an airy hand. "And like any other boss-employee working relationship, we scarcely tolerate each other."

"That's certainly true." George nodded.

"There's nothing more to it than that."

"That's certainly _not_ true," muttered his twin.

Fizzing with anger, Fred threw his hands down on the kitchen table, wobbling a bit as they slipped through the wooden tabletop. "The only reason I'm around that stupid girl so much is because of Bellatrix bleeding Lestrange!"

Lee was startled by this revelation. "So it's true, then? She really _is _back." He whistled long and low and shook his head gravely. "Bloody hell, man. Aren't you worried about your mum?"

"Harry's staying at home," George put in. "He and Ron are fully-fledged Aurors now. Bill checks in regularly too and Dad's leaving work an extra half hour early. She'll be safe with them until the Ministry gets control of Bellatrix." He sounded confident enough, but the look on his face spoke otherwise.

Fred, however, felt too irritated to care.

"Bellatrix busted her way in here a few months ago," he continued impatiently. "George has set up enough protective charms to stop a pack of flying elephants getting in, but Kingsley's still got me watching over Nox every minute she's under this roof. But so long as she keeps working here, I don't give a damn what happens to her. She's just a means to an end, really. Once we finish up our work together, it's bon voyage me old cream cracker! She can bog off and do whatever she wants. Besides," he laughed, "you can't honestly see me with a _Muggle_, can you? Dull as a box of chips, that'd be-"

The door clicked shut behind him. George and Lee were staring wide-eyed over his shoulders. A horrible swelling silence engulfed the entire kitchen. Fred froze.

Nox walked calmly into the kitchen. She had heard every word he had said. Fred groaned; now she'd start shouting and ranting, or maybe she'd blackmail him into dropping her rent for a month. George wouldn't be happy about that.

He turned and smiled hastily. "Ah, Nox. That… wasn't about you. All right it was, but I didn't mean it like – look it's not my fault."

She continued straight passed him, her expression oddly serene. Feeling slightly frightened, Fred watched her pick up two of the letters lying on the table then turn to Lee and smile brightly.

"Nice meeting you, Lee. Afraid I've got to get back to the office. Got a lot of work to get through today."

Without another word she walked out of the room.

Fred gawped after her.

After a moment Lee turned to him and said in a quietly amused tone, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're dead meat."

**oOo**

It was a very frosty Halloween, literally and metaphorically speaking. Luna Lovegood's humble home resided on the edge of Ottery St Catchpole. George hadn't given Nox much of a choice in whether or not she wanted to travel by Side-Along-Apparition, though she had certainly struggled enough and claimed a few fistfuls of his hair by the time they had arrived.

Nobody knew how Caithion Sidhe had travelled or indeed how he had arrived before them.

The table had been decorated for Halloween with cobwebbed candelabras, a few all-too-real looking eyeballs and a scatter of severed fingers, which occasionally tried to scuttle off the table. Luna was an interesting cook. Nox was only grateful she wasn't the only one who did not know what freshwater plimmies were. Thankfully they could be washed down with jugs of pumpkin juice.

"Holey moley, look what I found!" George cackled and lifted a severed ear from his plate, waving it in his twin's face.

Fred was still looking very grumpy after his morning run-in with Nox. Not only that, nobody could talk to him due to the fact that they were keeping company with the Muggle Irishman, Caithion.

George rolled his eyes and turned to his host who was sitting in a full-body costume fashioned to look like The Quibbler; a kooky wizarding magazine that Luna's father, Xenophilius Lovegood, worked for.

He beamed at her. "I've been looking for this blighter everywhere. Cheers Luna!"

"I painted little freckles on it too," she replied serenely, "to match the other one, you see."

George laughed. He had never really appreciated Luna's eccentricities before, but her gentleness, subtle humour and attention to detail was beginning to grow on him. He only felt sorry that she was living alone in a dank, smelly cottage by herself. But she seemed content enough. Luna wasn't a greedy person. She made do with what she had and enjoyed herself regardless, he thought with a smile.

"Luna, my dear, your hair is on fire," Caithion commented from across the table.

Luna turned to see the tips of her long wispy hair sizzling away, having been caught up in one of the decorative candelabras. "Oh, so it is. Must have been one of the fixies. They get agitated when there's tension in the air," she said, smiling knowingly at Fred. She began to pull her wand from behind her ear when both George and Nox sprung on top of her.

"L-Luna, here, let me get that for you," Nox offered, laughing nervously, and quickly put out the little flames with her glass of pumpkin juice.

George eyed their secretary carefully. He had never been completely certain of the cool Irishman, especially after the incident in Wales regarding Hati and the water nymph. But if Caithion had seen anything back then he certainly wasn't letting on. Fred had taken an almost immediate dislike to the Irishman and George had to admit, Caithion did have a habit of walking through his twin.

Luna stood up and clapped her hands. "Would everyone like pudding?"

George and Nox nodded weakly, and Luna lifted up a rusty old saucepan facing down in the centre of the table, revealing a perfectly round soul-cake. Then, Luna began to sing:

'_Soul, soul, for a souling cake,  
I ask, good miss, a souling cake.  
Apple or pear, a plum or a cherry,  
Any good thing to make us all merry!'_

Odd as it was, George hadn't had a feast like it in months. Since the Bellatrix incident, he had decided to avoid _the Burrow_ for a while, meaning that he'd had to suffer his own cooking or worse, Nox's. If Bellatrix did have a grudge against George or Fred, he certainly didn't want to go involving their family. It was bad enough that Nox was involved. And besides, he thought sadly, Fred rarely went home at all if it could be helped.

George glanced at his irritable twin and sighed inwardly. Over the past few weeks Fred had been picking fights with Nox every five minutes. Most of the time she shrugged off his little jibes and comments, but today had been different. Fred had hurt her.

When Nox had first come to work with them, George had naively thought they could keep her at a distance. He knew better now. It wasn't just Fred who was building a friendship with her, however rocky. George was beginning to find that their boyish, grounded and somewhat clumsy detective was growing on him too. Besides that, if they were going to crack Fred's curse within the year they would have to work together as a team. But how was that possible when Fred and Nox were at each others throats all the time? He groaned mentally, silently hoping that their squabbling wasn't the beginning of love. Friendship was one thing, but love was quite another – especially when one party was alive and the other was very much dead.

There was also the important matter of finding those remaining Muggles. They had searched and worked tirelessly since the last casebook in Wales, but had since then turned up nothing.

Jenny Greenteeth had told him that Weasley Manor had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin. And both the hag and the ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange had mentioned something about a Queen, though his memory of that was fuzzy and unclear, as if some magic was nibbling away at it. He had told Fred about Slytherin, but his brother had only laughed and said that it couldn't be possible: Salazar lived two thousand years ago and their house had been built in the 17th century.

"Oh!" Luna suddenly cried, leaping to her feet. "Zogbob!"

"Zogbob?" Fred quirked an eyebrow at George, questioningly.

"Yes, he's just got out!" Luna said in a rushed voice, grabbing her cloak and hobbling to the door as fast as she could in her restricting Halloween costume. "I had better catch him before the salt elves do. On Halloween they like to capture cats and saddle them to ride through the night."

"So Zogbob is your cat?" asked Nox.

Luna shook her head. "No, no, he's a firedrake. I hatched him yesterday."

Nox looked at Caithion warily, but he simply stood up and said plainly, "Then, Miss Lovegood, we will set up a search party. He won't have gone far. Not on this night, if he has any sense."

They followed Luna's lead out onto the streets of Ottery St Catchpole where little Muggle girls and boys were tearing up and down the roads, egging houses and chanting spooky songs in their brightly coloured costumes. A few of the younger children squeaked in fright and burrowed into their parents sides as Fred's eerily glowing figure floated past.

"Luna, what does a firedrake look like exactly?" George muttered in Luna's ear, half wondering if it wasn't another one of the dreamy girl's imaginings. He certainly hadn't noticed anything that looked as if it could be a firedrake back in her ramshackle cottage.

Luna looked at him in mild surprise. "A firedrake is a distant cousin of the dragon. I thought you might have known that. Your older brother is a dragon tamer, isn't he?"

George felt his cheeks redden. "Er, well, yeah…" He groaned. "Luna, what are you doing keeping a dragon? You know it's illegal, right? Remember when Hagrid nearly got nicked for keeping one at Hogwarts?"

"No," she replied brightly then handed him a string of turnip lanterns. "Could you please start hanging these on all the lampposts, George? It keeps away the vengefuls and other bad spirits on Halloween." She promptly thrust the stringed turnips into his hands then trundled up the street in her bulky costume, occasionally calling, _"Zogbob! Here, Zogbob!"_

"Hey, Georgie," Fred muttered quietly in his ear. "What's that over there do you think? Bonfire or something?"

George quickly recognised the black mass Fred had pointed out as Stoatshead Hill, the same hill they had taken the Portkey to the Quidditch World Cup from. He frowned. An odd light was illuminating the land behind it so that the crest of the hill was blackly silhouetted. No one on the streets seemed to notice or give it a second glance.

"There isn't another town behind that hill is there?" Nox asked upon joining them. Fred and George shook their heads. As they stood there, they began to hear a strange thumping sound, like the beating of drums, coming over the crest of the hill. "Then… do you think there's a circus setting up over there?"

"No, I don't think so." Fred stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I feel weird. I don't think that's a man-made light at all." He snapped his head to face George. "Blimey, here, you don't think…"

George nodded, feeling giddy with excitement. "I _do_ think, mate."

Fred beamed. "_Brilliant._ Let's check it out!"

"Check what out?" Nox cried after them. "Hey! Wait! Check WHAT out?"

"Hurry up chicken legs!" George shouted.

"No rest for the wicked." Caithion wandered after him, shouldering Luna in one arm and using the other to light a cigarette.

They left the streets of Ottery St Catchpole and started across the frosty fields towards the base of Stoatshead Hill. Now the music was getting louder and more distinct. They could hear bagpipes, flutes, fiddles and singing voices. The air felt colder too. George's hands and feet were beginning to freeze, but that was to be expected, given what he was sure they were about to find.

When they broke the crest of the hill, Fred whistled triumphantly and Nox gasped in amazement, pushing the flopping hair from her face to get a better look. On the other side of Stoatshead Hill, stretching endlessly from horizon to horizon, was a procession of the strangest host of creatures George had ever seen: ghosts, vampires, ghouls, night-hobs, willow-the-wisps, gwyllion, centaurs, all of them dancing and whooping and cheering as they moved across the land, completely invisible to Muggle eyes. There were even a few giants to the rear of the line who were, to Fred's great surprise (and amusement), very careful not to tread on some of the smaller creatures. Each monster, witch and ghoul carried a lantern hooked to a long wooden rod so that the entire procession was bathed in an otherworldly golden glow.

"The Demon Parade," breathed Fred.

"I've never seen anything like it," whispered Nox in a small voice, unable to take her eyes from the spectacle. "What's it for?"

"Oh, talking to me now are you?" Fred grunted.

Nox sniffed. "No."

"No?"

She said nothing, just raised her chin a little higher.

He glowered. "So you _are_ still mad at me," he stated coldly. "You can't keep your trap shut forever. Not with your giant gob you can't. Bloody Hell, I said I'm sorry!"

"Good. Now say you're a git."

Fred opened his mouth to retort then stopped himself. With a resigned shrug he nodded sheepishly and shot her a lopsided grin. "Fair dos. I'm a git."

"And a clod," she added.

"And an clod."

"And cretinous, verminous, tit-"

"Okay!" he shouted.

"Fred, I don't think you even know what you're apologising for. I don't care if you like me or not, and I definitely don't give a toss if you fancy me. But the way you talk about _Muggles_ like we're all thick and boring, because we can't wave a wand around… It's wrong." She looked him square in the eye. "Have I ever treated you like you're different?"

Fred looked shocked. "No," he murmured, "you haven't." And he realised as he said it that it was completely true. A stab of guilt, the kind he rarely felt, struck him hard. "I'm sorry, Nox."

Her expression softened.

"All right, you've reached an understanding," said George, coming up behind them. "Let's end it at that and get down there!"

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Nox began hesitantly when George gave her a hard push down the icy hill.

"Live a little!" he shouted after her as she stumbled down the slippery slope, Fred floating after her, jeering.

Before following their lead, George turned around in time to see Caithion reach the summit of Stoatshead Hill, still carrying Luna in one arm. George knew the Demon Parade had more enchantments on it than the Hogwarts train, but he couldn't help but wonder if his secretary might suffer a heart attack at the ghoulish view. Nevertheless, Caithion appeared indifferent as ever as he joined him at the top of the hill, gazing idly at the stars overhead. Luna, however, was positively bursting with excitement.

"I've always dreamed of seeing the Demon Parade! My mother used to sing songs about it when I was a child but I never imagined it was this beautiful," she said happily, and before George could stop her, Luna had grabbed his hand and was hobbling down the hill with him in tow. "We must find the singing griffin if we can! If you find one it can tell you where everything you've ever lost can be found. And if you're polite, it will also give you a nice recipe for turtle soup."

George cast a glance over his shoulder. Caithion was not following them.

His twin was beckoning them over, a wild look on his face. "George, have a look over there – I think that's Firenze." He began shouting over to a centaur near the edge of the parade, who was chatting with a couple of blushing wood nymphs. "Oi, Firenze! Over here, mate!"

Firenze smiled when he caught sight of them and trotted over to where they stood at a safe distance from the parade (while the werewolves and creatures of a more voracious appetite were sworn not to attack any of their fellow marchers, the vow did not protect witches, wizards and Muggles outside the procession who strayed too close to its boundaries).

Firenze made a short bow of his head at each twin, his long fair hair catching the orange light from the lantern he was carrying. His pale sapphire eyes glinted warmly. "It's an honour to meet you again. Sadly I do not think we have met since the Battle of Hogwarts." His smile flickered when his gaze rested on Fred's silvery body. "My greatest apologies to you."

Fred shook his head, laughing. "Forget about it. Happens. How'd you get to join the Demon Parade, then?"

Firenze drew himself up proudly. "It's a great honour." He extended one arm out to the winding procession. "Only a handful of each magical creature and being is allowed to join the Demon Parade every year."

"Yeah, I heard old Dumbledore joined back in the day," George commented, musingly. "Not that that surprises me."

"You couldn't keep that old kook from something like this," added Fred.

"The Demon Parade marches for twelve days and nights," the centaur replied. "We stop on the twelfth night, All Hallows Eve, which is where we find _it_."

"Find what?" Nox asked curiously then caught herself quickly. "Oh – sorry, you don't have to answer that. I've got to learn to stop asking answers to questions I know will get me into trouble," she muttered ruefully.

Firenze smiled and leaned down to her. "No, you should never refuse knowledge, young lady. The location of our destination changes each year, but the thing for which we search remains the same: the World Tree." His smile grew broader at the look on their faces. "Come, walk alongside the parade for a while and take a glimpse at _real_ magic at work."

Luna had discovered Zogbob sitting up a tree and hissing at a passing night-hob. She levitated the orange scaly creature into her arms then sat down on the grass, pulling a pad and a quill from inside her costume, and began sketching several of the passing creatures moving along the procession.

"Tell me," Firenze started in a low whisper, "who is your friend up there?"

Fred looked towards Stoatshead Hill where Caithion was still crowning the top of the huge mound, motionless. His long shadow stretched all the way to the bottom of the hill. The Irishman seemed to be staring directly at him.

"Who, him?" Fred growled and pocketed his hands. "He works for Nox. Says he's a Muggle, but I don't trust him an inch. Every time I turn around he's there, staring at me."

Behind him, George was chuckling. "Fred's just paranoid."

"No, I do not blame him for distrusting that man," Firenze said grimly. "I have to wonder why he of all people is keeping company with… Well, it is not my place to question. Just keep your wits about you. And take care of your charge. There are rumours going around about all three of you – the house you live in is not safe, but you cannot under any circumstances leave it." The centaur leaned very close to him and whispered, "I know about your curse. I'd like to tell you more but there is little point. The Snow Witch is already working her spell on you. Sure as the tide comes, you will have forgotten my mentioning her by tomorrow morning."

Somewhere in the far distance a horn bellowed into the night air. The sound made the blood in their veins freeze. Firenze straightened up.

"I must leave you now. That is the final horn before the last march. It is three hours to midnight on All Hallows Eve and we reach our destination when the bell tolls." He nodded and bade them all farewell, then rode into the thick of the crowd and disappeared from sight.

George swallowed. Suddenly the excitement he had felt from discovering the Demon Parade had lost its edge. So even the beast world knew about Fred's curse?

George cast another sideways glance at his twin. Fred was laughing uproariously at Nox who was trying, and failing, to name some of the beasts passing by in the Demon Parade. _'If we go on like this,' _George mused with a wry smile, _'we're all going to get hurt.'_

**oOo**

**

* * *

  
**

**A/N:** Hope you liked that chapter. I decided it was time to start building a bit of romance between Fred and Nox. Out of curiosity, what would people like to see more of (action, romance etc.?). I'm always opened to suggestions! Oh, and because a few people have been asking me lately, yes you're more than welcome to use Nox in your fanfics or draw fanart of her. I would appreciate credit for the character, but other than that, go right ahead. Heck, I'm really flattered!

Christmas Special soon! MERRY CHRISTMAS!


	15. The Nutcracker Doll

**A/N: **Yargh! Kitty-hime, you may throw the boot. Righto, first I've got a couple of questions to answer.

**Pyromaniac Bunny:** Harry will make an appearance, but he doesn't play a very important role until the end of the story (stuff to do with the Deathly Hallows).  
**Kira:** Sure, send me a link to that video; I'd love to see it!  
**Brangienne: **You'll find out eventually (muahaha)

**To all:** Thank you so, SO much for all the reviews, the gift art and general fic-support! And I'm really so sorry for taking this long to update. My excuse: writer's block, Christmas, mountaineering up north and then writer's block again, but I think I may have finally cracked it! The TVPD Christmas special was originally _11000 words_ believe it or not, but I decided to cut it in half (thank goodness), so here's the first part! Second part will be up in a couple of days or so, seeing as it's already written.

**MAY 9TH IS OFFICALLY RE-FREDDING DAY  
**(write it on your calendars! For more information, read Starhorse's fanfic 'Fox Ears' then visit my deviantart page… or, y'know, just ask)

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
The Nutcracker Doll

**oOo**

There were twelve days left to Christmas and the snow was lying thin upon the ground. While Fred's work-obsessed Muggle detective seemed altogether indifferent to the seasonal holiday, he and George were ecstatic. Christmas was their favourite time of year.

And they were wasting it at an opera.

"Fred, for the umpteenth time, it's not an opera," Nox hissed in his ear. "It's a _ballet_."

"Yeah, because that's heaps better," Fred retorted sarcastically, drumming his ghostly fingers along the armrest.

"Sir?" A small, pasty-faced usher in a red jacket was leaning across the seats towards their po-faced secretary who was sitting, spider-like, a seat away from Nox. "Sir, you can't smoke in here, sir. There is an area in the lobby reserved for smoking."

The Irishman gave the scrawny little man a sharp, piercing glare. "Is the word 'please' too much for your challenged mind to handle, boy?" Caithion bit back in a cold, snide voice. "And who, may I ask, has determined that I cannot smoke here?"

"Uhm…Well, that is… I have, sir…" The usher swallowed thickly, but nevertheless stood his ground.

Caithion's eyes slanted further. "And _you_ are?" he asked, eliciting each word carefully, as if he were talking to a three year old child.

A bead of sweat was beginning to form on the man's pock-marked forehead. "A-An usher, sir."

"Then why don't you _usher_ along and let a dying man enjoy his last fag, or would you rather I have my orphaned niece carry my frail body downstairs to the lobby where you insist that people smoke? I can promise you now, the_ Coliseum_ will be lucky to have my and that of my esteemed and obscenely wealthy colleagues' business again."

"I-I'm very sorry, sir! I didn't realise, sir," the usher squeaked apologetically. "I'll get you an ashtray straight away. One moment, sir."

Nox glowered at the tall, dour secretary who was puffing satisfactorily on his cigarette. "That was an outright lie, Caith. I am not your niece. And you are _not_ dying."

"Maybe he's dying to get out of here, like the rest of us," George muttered.

Caithion merely shrugged his thin shoulders in an easy sort of way. "It all depends on your outlook, my dear. You might call yourself a living being – a creature of animation, continually improving, constantly growing. I, however, refer to myself as a dying being – for death is inevitably the portion of all mortal men. All we ever do is die." He tapped his ash onto the seat that Fred was occupying, who cursed and swore furiously at the Irishman who remained blind to his presence.

Nox opened her mouth to retort then closed it again and rolled her eyes. She knew better.

Luna was peering through her opera glasses at a very large woman sitting a few rows down, whose head was crowned by a most spectacular feathered hat and decorated with an extra sprig of mistletoe for the festive season. The young witch's sudden horrified gasp made everyone along their row jump in their seats.

"_Microscopic Myopic Popicks!_" Luna cried, pointing excitedly. "Also known as the feather-wrinklers or 'Mad Hatters'. Oh! My! There are thousands of them! How extraordinary – I do hope they don't burrow into her ears; that could get particularly nasty. A bit like having your nose hairs tickled by a spider."

Nox leaned over Fred and her still-smoking secretary, trying in desperation to catch the witch's attention. "Luna, please, someone will hear you…"

"When do you think I should set off these fireworks?" George pondered behind her. "Somewhere in the middle or am I better off towards the end, do you think?"

"No, no, wait until the dancers are balancing up in a human pyramid – THEN set them off," answered Fred, examining the bag packed with fireworks and other dangerous looking explosives at his twin's feet.

"Sure they'll feature one of those in a ballet?" asked George, doubtfully.

"Of course." Fred nodded confidently. "It's a steeple of all dramatic theatre."

"Fair point."

Nox groaned and sank further into her seat, covering her eyes with her hand in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. "Will you two please stop messing around?! You're going to get us all tossed out and banned from ever entering the _Coliseum_ again."

"That would be terrible," said Fred, in a tone full of sarcasm and George nodded gravely.

"Don't know if I could live with myself knowing that I might never see another opera again."

She scowled. "_Ballet._"

George shrugged. "Whichever, whatever."

"Hang about," Fred interrupted, waving his hand impatiently. "Nox, you're about as ladylike as I am a Saint. You really telling me you're into ballets and operas and all that wet junk."

"I've never been to one before. Besides, you shouldn't group people into one category. Just because I don't have as many feminine qualities as…" Nox paused and looked at Luna who was still peeking excitably at the old woman's hat through her opera glasses, then continued, "…Er, well, anyway it doesn't mean I won't enjoy things like ballet."

Fred looked sceptical. "That right? Okay then. Name one typically female habit or interest you harbour in your big Noxy head," he said, but before Nox could reply, a long black coat was dumped unceremoniously through his body and onto the seat where he was sitting.

"I might as well make use of this most empty of seats, my dear," Caithion was saying, not without a small smile.

Fred cracked his silver knuckles furiously. "He did that on purpose."

"How could he? He can't see you," Nox replied in a smug whisper.

The ballet began in a fantastic fanfare of music and colour and lights. The story was an adaptation of The Summer and Winter Garden by the Brothers Grimm, better known as _Beauty and the Beast._ Fred had never fully understood or liked the story, but tonight as the dancers came on, prancing and leaping across the stage to a full-bodied orchestra, it made him feel irritable and out-of-sorts.

"I give up. Which one's the bloke?" he mumbled to Nox, who was flipping through the program on her lap, and George muttered behind her head, "The one whose bits are out on display."

"Ah." Fred laughed. "Boy has he got balls – no pun intended. Wouldn't catch me in a pair of tights, mind. Looks a bit chilly."

"Pity that," said George seriously. "I think you'd look quite fetching in spandex."

"Well, naturally. I was, after all, gifted with the build of a Greek God," Fred proclaimed, modestly.

"_Shhh!_" Nox hissed, prompting a very large and ogresome gentleman in the front seat to pull her the finger, which kept Fred amused for a good ten minutes. The remaining one hour and three quarters, however, was spent in horrendous boredom. Occasionally he would pull a face at Caithion, but the spidery Irishman remained as still and quiet as a dead dormouse. When at last the ordeal had ended and they were filing onto the streets and walking along Charring Cross Road, Fred made his feelings on the performance known in his usual eloquent and articulate manner.

"What a pile of dragon dung."

A small smile tugged on Nox's mouth even as she rolled her eyes. Luna had stopped to chat to a vendor trading tacky Christmas accessories and glasses of mulled wine. George bought each of them a glass and passed one around while keeping a wary eye on Luna, who looked ready to buy up every reindeer-antlers headband and flashing Santa Claus nose the vendor had for sale.

"Not that I'm surprised or anything," Nox began, sipping her wine, "but you might as well humour me. What had you so irked about it?"

"Simple. The heroine spent a good three quarters of the ruddy story, and fifty-odd mind numbingly lengthy dance routines, falling in love with that great ugly beast, right?" Fred began. "But if she was so in love with him, then how come he had to go and change back into handsome Prince Charming again? Bit superficial and thin on the plot if you ask me. Typical girls' stuff."

To his surprise Nox actually laughed, nearly spilling the contents of her mulled wine down her white shirt. As usual she had been too harassed with their business to change out of her work clothes, which almost always consisted of a plain shirt, loosely hanging tie, braces and trousers. She tried, he'd hand her that, but the overall look was haphazard and a bit shabby; a little like her, he mused.

"It's a fairytale, Fred," she said, once her laughing fit had subsided. "The villain is always defeated, the monster always turns back into a handsome Prince and the couple always share a true love kiss on the last page. It's cheesy and rehashed, but, well, enjoyable enough I suppose. Good for Christmas." She gave an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. "It's nice to have a happy ending now and again. Besides, not everything ends in tragedy and if art always mimicked life, then we'd be too depressed to leave our houses."

But Fred was not ready to give up his argument so soon. "Come off it, you think the heroine would have stuck around even if his Princeliness looked like a great fanged monster for the rest of his life?"

"How should I know? Yes, probably. They were in love," Nox insisted.

Fred snorted with derisive laughter. "Right. Bet she'd be well chuffed slipping into bed with a big hairy brute every night."

"I dunno, Fred," said George, sidling up to them, leaving Luna to their secretary's charge. "Madam Maxime doesn't seem to mind sharing Hagrid's bed every now and again… Or bouncy castle, or whatever it is they sleep on."

Fred grunted. "Yeah, but you don't see a ring on his finger, do you?"

"That's because a ring wouldn't _fit_ on his finger," countered George, then added thoughtfully, "Maybe a hula-hoop or a tyre…"

"Why are you so upset about this?" Nox asked, curiosity etching her young but careworn face. "It's only a story. You shouldn't take it so seriously."

Fred quickly turned away from them. It was a first, he thought; Nox accusing _him_ of taking something too seriously. "Not at all, Noxy-kins," he said, forcing a laugh. "I'm just pointing out that these fairytales have about as much depth as a spoon. Come on, let's head back." he ordered shortly, then shot them both an easy grin. But while Nox seemed reassured by this, Fred knew his twin would not be so readily convinced.

Luna and Caithion left them outside the gate to Weasley Manor, but not before the young witch had dug into her knitted shoulder bag and produced three presents for each of them. George accepted both his and Fred's gifts a little reluctantly. Fred peered curiously over his shoulder, a wary smile on his own face. It would just be like a Lovegood to give them all powdered Erumpent horn or some other equally bizarre and explosive.

Caithion was also digging into his coat pocket and after a moment he produced a small rectangular box wrapped in black wrapping paper.

"Your Christmas present, my dear," the Irishman said and pressed the gift carefully into Nox's hands.

"Aren't I a bit old for you to still be buying Christmas presents for?" she asked, inspecting the small wooden box curiously.

"All in the holiday spirit." Caithion's mouth widened into what Fred thought was an altogether snake-like smile. If Caithion were a wizard, Fred had no doubts as to which Hogwarts house he would have been sorted into.

Grinning, Nox pulled a similarly long rectangular box from her own coat pocket. "Two hundred Marlboro Reds, like every year." She sighed. "I wish you'd ask for something else. Buying you something which will no doubt give you lung cancer one day rather depletes the purpose of good willed gift-giving."

Caithion ignored her, simply instructing, "Open yours tomorrow tonight."

"But it's not Christmas for twelve days yet."

"Don't argue, just open it. Lord knows I went through enough trouble to get it."

"I bet you a thousand Galleons it's a bomb," Fred muttered in her ear, glaring mutinously at the tall sinister secretary's back as he glided away down Pentonville Road after Luna. "Either that or it contains the bubonic plague."

**oOo**

Fred and George had been chosen to take care of the festival Hodening ritual this year – a riotous jape that took place down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley. George, the Christmas Hoden, was at the centre of the parade, concealed in a horse blanket from the top of which protruded a brightly painted wooden horse head. The horse head's hinged jaws were snapping open and shut, sending some of the younger children running away in tears while others tossed sweets and a few bronze Knuts into its mouth. Meanwhile, Fred had the job of flying in and out of every wizarding shop in the vicinity, spooking both customers and workers alike. The procession ended outside the grand snowy white building of Gringotts Wizarding Bank where an immense Christmas tree stood, lit with a thousand candles and decorated with toys and small presents, many of which had been donated by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

It had been dark for hours by the time they got back to Weasley Manor. Luna had offered to guard Nox while they'd been gone. Even four months after the attack, the threat of Bellatrix Lestrange was never far from their minds.

Luna was sitting with Caithion in the office, her long, sinuous firedrake, Zogbob, curled affectionately around her upper torso. Fred rolled his eyes and George groaned behind his wooden horse head. They had both given up reminding Luna to avoid using magic in front of their secretary, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that Caithion Sidhe paid them little to no attention whatsoever and if he did notice some of the more extraordinary things going on around him, he certainly didn't let on.

George pulled off his stiflingly hot Hoden's cloak and horse head, and winked at the occupants of the Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives' office. "Merry Hoden's Day!"

"You're late," was the cool statement he received. Nox had not even bothered to lift her grey eyes from the mound of paperwork she was filling out and filing away.

The twins grinned at each other like a couple of schoolboys.

"Charming as always."

"So much obliged."

"Come on Nox, get in the spirit of things!" said George. "Look – we brought you a partridge and a pear tree." He lifted up a dead bird by its legs and hung it on the coat-stand next to the door where an uprooted tree was leaning.

Nox raised her eyebrows. "You two are like a pair of retriever dogs. I hope you don't expect me to cook that thing."

George made a gagging face. "Blimey no, I've tasted your cooking and you're no better at it than I am. Mum'll do that for us. We'll take it round next week for the party. That'll have her tickled pink."

"What's Scrooge doing over there?" Fred motioned towards their secretary, scowling. "Preparing lumps of coal for all the ickle kiddies' stockings?"

Nox followed his line of sight to the far end of the office, barely visible through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke. Fred had never taken to their strange, detached Muggle secretary. She couldn't blame him, really; few people did. Something about Caithion felt wholly unnatural and silently mocking, which perhaps explained why Luna Lovegood had formed a kinship with him. Fred, however, constantly complained that no matter where he was drifting or who he was talking to, he could feel the secretary's eyes boring into the back of his head.

"Funnily enough, he's working," Nox replied, shuffling some papers. "Some people don't just drop everything for the holidays like you two oafs do. Some people get up in the morning and do their job." She rubbed sleep out of her tired eyes and lifted a stack of files stamped 'LONDON COLISEUM, ATTIC GHOUL' with the date scribbled in green ink beneath it. "Caithion, file this under 'C', would you?"

The secretary took the file, flicking briefly through it with a careful eye. "It would be far more prudent to file it under Attic Ghouls. Remember you had me sort an entirely different filing system for them," he said, with a note of displeasure.

Nox stifled a huge yawn and nodded, bleary-eyed. "Oh… right… Yeah, I remember now." When Caithion was once again out of earshot, she turned to the twins and said, "Been loads of Attic Ghouls this month. Just how people can't see what's right in front of their eyes is beyond me. They call in with complaints about bangings and bumpings and screamings upstairs, with the vague notion that it might be something not quite _right_, but when it gets down to it all they really expect us to find is a particularly large and nasty rodent. I suppose it doesn't matter. The end justifies the means and if we get rid of it, and, more to the point get _paid,_ then it shouldn't really matter what people do or don't believe …or see…"

She propped her elbows up on the table and rested her chin on her hands. The problem was it did matter; to her at least. From her experience of the wizarding world so far, Nox found that most witches and wizards, even Fred and George from time to time, were quite disparaging of non-magic folk, even if they did not mean to be. But was it any wonder when her kind spent their lives walking the earth next to dragons and unicorns, mermaids and magic, without so much as a raised eyebrow? And if history had taught her anything it was that people feared what they did not understand, and fear triggered war.

Nox felt confused in herself, as though she was in some way betraying her race. Lately she had been keeping awake at night, listening to Fred not breathing at the other end of the room where George had set him up a make-shift camp, but _knowing_ he was there as sure as her nose was attached to her face. She did not know what she was exactly; not a witch, not a Squib and not exactly a "Muggle", but in a strange way (one that went against her firm beliefs in realism and keeping her head out of the clouds), she was _glad_.

"We've got one in the attic back home," Fred and George were conversing over her desk – it took Nox a moment to realise they had been talking for a while.

"Bleedin' impossible to remove if you don't know what put it there in the first place."

"True, but it came in handy with Ron's little excursion a few years ago."

"Did it ever."

That was another thing. Fred and George often referred to an event that had occurred a few years previously, which, as far as she could surmise, had lead to Fred's untimely death. Nox had heard Luna call this event the Last War and Rita Skeeter had mentioned something in her scathing article called the _Battle of Hogwarts_. Nox, being in the possession of a very fine memory, also remembered the ghost boy, Ran, telling her of how he had planned to attend the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry before he had been drowned by the hag, Jenny Greenteeth. But what could have lead to a battle at the scene of a school, Nox did not know and the twins had never fully explained, so it was not her place to ask.

Besides, there were more important things to focus on, namely Fred's curse. The year was passing quickly. If they understood the green-fire writing on the wall correctly, they had until the coming May to hunt out the remaining five Muggles carrying a piece of glass similar to the two they had collected already.

All this accounted for her rattier than normal moods lately. She was, after all, pulling fairly regular all-nighters and she suspected by the shadows under his eyes that George was doing the same, despite doing his best to conceal it.

Nox was about to plough her way through another stack of papers when a pair of arms hooked underneath her own and lifted her out of her seat with surprising ease.

"Right, enough of that!" George proclaimed. "Up you get. Whether you like it or not, it's Christmas time, a time for family –"

"– and for decorating the house in a delightful mishmash of toilet paper, plastic and plants," added Fred, jovially.

"H-Hey! I'm _not_ family," Nox tried to protest, but Fred and George just shook their heads and wagged their fingers with eerily perfect timing.

"Not technically, no," said Fred, "and thank Merlin for that."

"Ah, but contrariwise, if it was so, it might be," continued George, "and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't."

"That's logic! So UP!" the twins chorused together, at which point Nox was so turned about that she allowed herself to be frog-marched from the room.

"That doesn't change the fact that I've got more important things to do than fiddle about untangling Christmas lights all night," she muttered, still dazed by their logic.

"Nonsense!" Fred scoffed. "Nothing beats decorating a Christmas tree. George, you get the gnomes from the back garden?"

George saluted. "All ready and Petrified at your command!"

"Brilliant, we can stick one on the top of the tree. Make a nice change from the usual star; modern thinking and all that."

George grinned. "Hermione won't be happy. Wait and see, she'll be protesting outside our front door soon."

They walked across the chequered entrance hall floor to the door engraved Room NO. 54, Balderdash, and entered. This was Nox's favourite room by far. While the rest of Weasley Manor often felt at times like a cavernous fortress, and considering the Halls of Fortitude and the largely unexplored second floor that wasn't far off, Room NO. 54 felt cosy and lived-in. Like every other room in the house it was huge and the surrounding walls were plastered with epic portraits and intricately woven tapestries depicting terrible battles, ancient castles and men and women of obvious power and influence, but the twins had added their own touch here and there – a couple of squashy red and gold armchairs, a large couch, a few Quidditch posters and a grand piano in the corner close to the window that belonged to George. One portrait hung above the white marble mantelpiece depicting a middle-aged man dressed in the robes of an eighteenth century scholar named Sir Hector Oddness. He was not as sinister and foreboding as the other characters in the surrounding portraits and often had a friendly word to greet them with whenever they entered the room.

"Opted for a small tree this year, I see? A discreet twelve-footer; very lovely!" Sir Hector flattered, beaming at them.

"Yeah, but we need to get the star up somehow," said Fred, with a teasing smile. "George, how's about you levitate Nox up there? She's good and light."

"_Levitate?!_" Nox spluttered. "Levitate my arse!"

Fred blinked. "Well, yes, that's the general idea."

"Oh, it doesn't hurt," Luna assured her, popping out from seemingly nowhere and smiling dreamily. The sinewy firedrake wrapped around her torso raised its scaled head and regarded Nox carefully. Luna began to scratch the small dragon behind its lumpy eye ridges so that it elicited a low purring, like a cat. "It's a bit like walking through water on your tip-toes. There's no danger involved."

Nox quirked her mouth and grumbled under her breath, "Why don't you do it then?"

After an hour passed and the Christmas tree was brightly decorated with baubles, tinsel, a few Petrified gnomes (those of whom Luna was deeply engrossed in conversation with) and hundreds of little candles Charmed to change colour every few seconds, the twins left the room with equally conspiratorial expressions planted on their near identical faces.

Nox began arranging presents around the Christmas tree while Luna set about decorating the mantelpiece with holly and ivy. Zogbob was curled in the centre of the glowing fire, nestling his scaly head into the hot coals and purring contently.

"Are you going to open it?" asked Luna suddenly.

Nox blinked owlishly. "Open what?"

"Your Christmas present from Caithion. He wanted you to open it tonight. It sounded like it was quite important," she said, then added dreamily, "I wonder what he could have bought you. I've often wondered what kind of presents Muggles give each other."

Nox smiled nostalgically. "Well, Caith's presents aren't generally typical of your average Muggle's. And they have a habit of growing stranger and more enigmatic every year. Between him and Dad, I…" A dull pang throbbed in her chest at the thought of her father. She buried it hastily, trying to push all thoughts and memories of him from her head, but forgetting him was always a little hard at Christmas. Her father, Edward Balthazar McRozen (or as the tabloids had affectionately dubbed him, _Mad Rozza)_, had always loved Christmas, just as much, if not more, as the twins did. Edward had done everything in his power to make her love the holiday too, but none of that bared thinking about anymore. After all, her father had run out on her, leaving behind him a mass of debts and a ruined reputation. In five years he had not thought Nox important enough to contact, not even now at his favourite time of year, a time he insisted was for family – just like the Fred and George did.

The expression on Luna's face softened. She picked up the rectangular box and handed it to Nox with an incline of her head and an encouraging smile. Grinning despite herself, Nox accepted the box and gave it a little shake. Something rattled inside. She tore off the black paper and a wooden box fell onto her lap, engraved with the words "Hati & Flaversham Handmade Crafts". Her eyes shot towards Luna who nodded her on excitedly. Nox opened the latch on the side of the box and opened the lid. Inside there lay the most peculiar doll she had ever seen. It was about six inches high and wearing a red hussars' uniform, all gleaming brass buttons and polished leather boots, and over his shoulder was slung a shiny black rifle. His freckled face was set in the most grotesque expression and his jaw worked up and down by some small mechanical wonder in his back. After a minute of intense scrutiny, Nox deduced that the doll was a nutcracker. She fingered the delicate material of his red jacket and affectionately brushed the wig of rust red hair from his eyes.

"He's wonderful," Luna cooed over her shoulder. "He looks a little like Fred, don't you think?"

"Fred?" Nox repeated in a murmur, counting the nut-brown freckles on the nutcracker's face and inspecting his tall hussar's hat. Peering into the soldier's gruesome, leering face, she could definitely see how Luna had come to such a conclusion. In fact, the expression was almost uncannily like Fred's, huge fore-teeth and mechanical jaw aside.

Then, with a start, she snatched up the box. "Hang on a minute. Hati and Flaversham? It can't be…"

"Oh, didn't you know they went into business together? I've heard their dolls are very popular. Fred and George are selling them by the dozen in their shop; all enchanted of course. Hati's magic and Flaversham's crafting skills are the perfect blend. Daddy bought me one for Christmas too: a swan with a golden necklace and it sings such a pretty song." She took the nutcracker soldier from Nox's hands. "I wonder if this one is enchanted…"

"I'm just glad to hear those two patched things up," said Nox, recalling her earlier conversation with Fred about fairytale endings with a wry smile. She still did not know what had irked Fred so badly about the performance, but then lately Fred had been downright miserable. Most days he followed her around the house, skulking and throwing more sarcastic comments her way than was the norm. As much as he seemed to love Christmas, the closer it got, the edgier he became. When she had asked George about him, he only shook his head and mentioned something about a party at _the Burrow_.

_The Burrow_, she discovered, was the name of Fred and George's family home in Devonshire and the party in question was taking place next week. Nox could not help feeling a little trepidation – after all, she would be the only Muggle in a household of witches, wizards and goodness knows what else. But at the same time she felt a twinge of excitement at what might happen. She had a fair idea that wizarding celebrations were not quite the same as the dull, tedious office parties she had been to.

"You're going to _the Burrow_ next week, aren't you, Luna?" Nox asked, hopefully.

"I do hope so," she replied, fixing the last of the holly to the mantelpiece. "But I'm carrying out a study on winter magical creatures. You know, Christmas was initially a conspiracy by the northern gnome folk who tried to enchant the land with ice – they were all champion skaters, you see – and the overflow of magic freed many spirits and creatures of field, wood and water. Naturally the magic only lasts for the twelve days of Christmas and I have quite a lot of grouping and categorising to do. I'm hoping I might catch a glimpse of the Glyph sprites – they're native to Russia, but I've heard that a few have been spotted around Devon. They're almost impossible to catch on camera! Rolph has, of course, but then Rolph can catch anything."

"Oh yeah?" said Nox, only half listening while she place a nut in the nutcracker's jaws and pulled the little leaver on his back until she heard the crunch of the nut's shell. "Who's he then?"

Luna paused momentarily, then replied softly, "I suppose you could call him my fiancé."

The nutcracker fell out of her hands and she squeaked, "_Fiancé!_"

Luna nodded. "My fiancé." She stopped what she was doing and studied Nox carefully. "Have you swallowed a gumbart pellet? Be careful, they look very like nuts, but they're actually firedrake droppings."

"N-no, it's not that… Er, actually I might have… But, I, well, just thought that you maybe -" Nox stopped herself short. She had made a promise to herself to at least attempt to contain her curiosity (an early New Year's resolution). There was an uncomfortable pause. She scratched her head and desperately looked around for something to comment on; the nutcracker in her hand stared mockingly up at her.

Luna's round, owlish gaze fixed steadily on Nox. Then a small smile lit her pale face. "Thank you. It's really very nice of you to think about me. But I'm not as mad and dreamy as everyone thinks, you know," she said earnestly. "George is very kind to me and I'm happy that he considers me a good business partner. I really am content with that. I never did expect anything more. That would probably be like expecting Winter to come after Spring. And Rolf is… very fond of me." Luna smiled briefly then returned to decorating the mantelpiece. "And he's very clever, you know. Sometimes he thinks up to seven impossible things before breakfast."

Nox listened as the young witch prattled on, feeling somehow inexplicably sad. Nox had decided early on that Luna was far more animal than human in her mannerisms and surprising straight-forwardness. Although it was clear she was suffering a broken heart, there was a simple acceptance in her round, misty eyes and body language that was partly admirable, but somehow more heartbreaking to watch. And it made Nox wonder what had happened in Luna's past that had made her so complacent.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** I hope this chapter wasn't too boring. I really prefer the next chapter, mainly because I get to re-introduce the Weasley family (LOVE FOR WEASLEYS!), and then there's the discovery of Fred's grave coming up.

What I really disliked about JK's ITV interview was that she sort of hinted that Luna wasn't entirely happy with Rolf Scamander, adding, 'but my lot are okay', referring to Ginny and the Golden Hero-Trio. Don't get me wrong, I do like Harry, Hermione and Ron, but I dislike that JK made sure to give them all a delightfully happy ending and just tore George's to pieces – and for what? Shock factor? Uhg. I don't know about you lot, but I've officially given the finger to post-DH-canon. Hence RE-FREDDING DAY (May 9th, write it down!).

Anyways, second part of the Christmas special will be up soon (party at the Burrow, wayhey!).


	16. Jack Frost and the Grave of Fred Weasley

**A/N:** First off, thank you so much for all the amazing reviews! One away from 200 (I've never had so many before, thank you so much!). Secondly, Re-Fredding Day. It's on May 9th, so write it on your calendars! Basically it came about after a few folks and I were moaning and complaining about the vast number of angsty twins fanfiction around. Then **The Starhorse** wrote a most amazing Re-Fredding fanfic, Fox Ears, and I decided that we needed a day devoted to fanfiction, art, music vids, prankdom and general mayhem devoted to Re-Fredding Fred. So watch this space because I'm working on a website at the moment…

**Kristen:** (replying here because there was no email, sorry!) Thank you so much for such a lovely review. I'm really glad that you like Nox – I always worry that I'm going to muck her up entirely. XD  
**Kary2156:** Hells yes, another George x Luna fan! Cheers for the wonderful review, mate!  
**Gratitude Grendal:** Oof, tell me about it. Post DH canon goes out the window for me. I mean, George x Angelina? No. I think not. George is his own person – he's _not_ a replica of Fred in every way.

**Note:** This is the last of the fillers. Sorry, I know people want to get on with the story, but everything that's happened in the past fillers is really crucial to the overall plot. Thanks for sticking with the story so far guys!

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Jack Frost and the Grave of Fred Weasley

**oOo**

Snow was beginning to trickle down from a dark and leaden sky by the time Fred and George, with their Muggle detective in tow, Disapparated onto a front yard outside the village of Ottery St Catchpole, sending garden gnomes scattering everywhere, a few of them swearing furiously at the unexpected arrival. Nox looked around in wonder. Weasley Manor's bizarre construction wasn't a patch on the twins' family home and she wondered whether or not the architectural blueprints for the ramshackle house had originally been drawn up by a five year old (the five year old in mind being Fred). The house teetered, several stories high, on old limestone foundations and here and there a crooked room stuck out at varying gravity-defying angles, as though a giant had picked them up and stuck them on, like pieces of Lego. Several chimneys were belching out clouds of coloured smoke and as they made their way towards the house, George kicking garden gnomes aside as they went, delightful smells of hot stew and cooking roast wafted down the yard to greet them.

"Good old _Burrow_." Fred placed his hands on his hips and grinned, though for some reason the smile didn't seem to reach his eyes. "Home Sweet Home."

"We added more rooms once Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes took off," George told Nox as they crunched through the deep snow towards the house, "and then we expanded the kitchen for Mum's birthday last year."

Fred clapped his silver hands together, smirking devilishly. "Put Percy's nose right out of joint, that did. Had us in Mum's good books for months, too. But we needed to do something; I mean, what with Harry officially joining the family. Soon there'll be little rugrats running all over the joint."

"Then there's Andromeda and Teddy, Fleur and Victoire, occasionally the Lovegoods, Hagrid, the Grangers…" George counted off on his fingers. "I heard there are a few others coming tonight as well. Lee, Katie, Angelina…" He looked at Fred askance, but when his twin didn't answer George shrugged and continued. "Mum'll be going stir crazy with all the people Dad invited. Oh, that reminds me; I might have neglected to tell her we'd be bringing you around, Nox. Thought it best if I want to live to see my Christmas presents tomorrow."

"You didn't tell her?" Nox spluttered, and the twins smiled sweetly. She huffed. "Wonderful, I'm sure she'll be delighted to find out. And don't give me those 'butter wouldn't melt' smiles. I feel like something the cat dragged in," she mumbled, with a mental image of Fred and George as a pair of Cheshire cats, dragging her over the threshold by the scruff of her neck.

Nevertheless, as they entered the higgledy-piggledy _Burrow_, Mrs Weasley took one look at her scrawny figure, swamped though it was in her long coat, and, after a few choice words directed at her sons, the plump little witch had grabbed her by the shoulders, thrust her into a chair and plonked a bowl of sweet potato soup down before Nox even had a chance to properly introduce herself.

"Oh, Heavens above, just look at the state of you!_ Both of you_ – yes, you included, George Fabian Weasley! And FRED, why in Merlin's name are your wearing that old thing?" Mrs Weasley tsked and tutted and shook her head, then entered into lengthy rant, all the while keeping a careful vigil on Nox's soup-slurping progress. "_When was the last time you ate?… Just typical of my boys… can't believe… bones sticking out! …such a gaunt face… Fred – grey hairs, too! And when was the last time you shaved, George? …poor girl must be worked to the bone…be having a word with your father …I never would have thought… not how I raised them!_"

Out of the corner of her eye, Nox could see the twins slink guiltily out of the kitchen the first chance they got. Their absence went undetected for about two point four seconds, after which Mrs Weasley stormed out of the kitchen after them, brandishing a soupy ladle in the air as a knight might wield a mace.

Alone now, Nox took the opportunity to look around her new environment. It was certainly nothing like the pictures of quaint old English kitchens you got in _Homes & Gardens_ that she remembered her own mother pouring over – no, it was a hundred times better. Boughs of holly and ivy covered almost every surface and criss-crossed the ceiling in a tangle of red ribbon and golden thread. A long wooden table stood close to the fire, beautifully decorated and laid out for at least thirty people, with hand-made crackers hovering above the plates. There were pine cones burning on the fire, mixing with the scent of roasting turkey and vegetables, pumpkin pie and Christmas pudding. An old wooden-cased radio sat on one of the worktops, surrounded by pots and pans which were stirring or scrubbing themselves vigorously.

A smooth and oddly familiar voice suddenly came over the radio, introducing an hour of Celestina Warbeck's Christmas Stocking Hits. Nox tried to put a face or name to the voice, but could not imagine how she would know a wizarding DJ. Despite the past few months of working and living with the twins, she had had little real experience of the wizarding community. But then, she reasoned, perhaps she had met lots of witches and wizards over the years and had never known it. After all, they looked just like everyone else… _mostly._

A tiny part of her felt quite deceived. After all, her own father had been a Squib who had known all about this neighbouring world, and yet, for some reason, had neglected to tell her anything about it.

Mrs Weasley suddenly scurried back into the kitchen, shooting Nox and her empty bowl a warm smile. "I expect you were needing that, dear."

Nox grinned. "Yes, thanks – you've no idea." She picked up her bowl and followed the little witch to the worktop.

Mrs Weasley was everything Nox had come to expect: a plump, red haired witch with a compassionate, motherly face, though the woman's sharp tongue and bright eyes told her instantly that this was someone you would not readily cross – unless of course you were very foolish or had nerves of steel like Fred and George had.

It had been Mrs Weasley who had killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Nox thought back to how furious and terrifying the ghost of Bellatrix had been and tried to imagine the woman in life; tall, dark and imposing, and advancing on the plump little witch who was working away in the kitchen beside Nox, flicking her wand expertly at pots and pans, and humming wistfully along to Celestina Warbeck.

"It really isn't their fault, though," Nox heard herself saying, a little surprised that she was coming to the twins' defence, but it was true enough, she thought, touching the puffy bags under her eyes. "We've all been too busy and too knackered to shop for food lately. They've got their shop as well, of course, and work's been piling up ever since Halloween."

"Hmm, it would be with the sort of work you're doing. Oh, yes," Mrs Weasley said with a withering expression, "I know what you've been up to, though Heaven's to Betsy knows to what end. Running all around the city, flushing out attic ghouls and poltergeists… Far too dangerous work for a Muggle. And not to mention the Ministry; they've been keeping a very watchful eye on you, you know." The woman sighed, wearily, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I hope my boys are paying you enough, dear."

Nox quickly decided it would be best not to mention the fact that it was really the twins who were in _her_ employment, instead focused on scrubbing the dishes.

Mrs Weasley huffed. "Incorrigible twins. Really, they make it their life's ambition to try my nerves to breaking point. And they've succeeded once or twice, too. Twenty-five this year and still acting half their age! Never known boys like them. Not even Gideon and Fabian, bless their souls…" There was a thoughtful pause while Mrs Weasley directed her wand to a bowl of potatoes which began to peel themselves. Something the little plump witch said had disturbed Nox, but before she could think exactly what, Mrs Weasley continued. "I wanted to apologise for that incident…"

"Incident?" Nox furrowed her brow in confusion. "What incident?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Mrs Weasley growled in a low voice, "was a very cruel woman. To think she isn't a danger anymore just because she is dead, my dear, is a very big mistake. And I've felt so horribly responsible for what happened ever since. It's revenge against me she wants. I dread thinking what she's planning."

"We weren't in any danger, Mrs Weasley," Nox tried to assure her. "All bark and no bite, really, and there's been no sign of her since."

But Mrs Weasley shook her head stubbornly and grumbled, "Which is just all the more worrying."

A series of loud _cracks_ outside announced the arrival of _the Burrow's_ first guests.

Two men entered the house by the kitchen door, arms full of presents and barrels of Firewhiskey. Nox could tell instantly from the red hair and freckles that these were Weasley relations. The first man was stockier of build and a head shorter than the second, but the breadth of his shoulders certainly made up for his height. He shot her an easy grin, then set two large barrels of Firewhiskey and a sack of Christmas presents onto the floor. Nox was positive any normal human being would have collapsed under such a load.

"Charlie!" Mrs Weasley clicked her tongue impatiently. "You promised you'd be back over an hour ago. Just look at the time! Hagrid and the Grangers will be here any minute. Do you really think that's enough Firewhiskey? You know how much Hagrid likes to drink…"

"You worry too much, Mum," said Charlie, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Just thought I'd go round to Bill and Fleur's first and help with the presents, seeing as they've got Viccy to Apparate as well." He indicated the taller man behind him, Bill, who embraced Mrs Weasley in a tight hug. Nox noticed that Bill's face, which otherwise would have been very handsome, was badly disfigured by a series of long slashing scars. There was also something quite wild in the way he surveyed the room and the stew cooking over the fire, and when Nox shook hands with him she wondered vaguely if his injuries had anything to do with the small black earless hole in the side of George's head.

"Eet is pronounced _Veec-twar_, Charlee, not, how you say, 'Viccy'," a very tall and very beautiful woman corrected peevishly, in a thick French accent, as she swept into the kitchen, her silvery blonde hair flowing behind her like a bride's veil. A small girl with white locks and a scattering of nut-brown freckles across her nose and cheeks was clutching the woman's hand tightly.

"AH!_ Mademoiselle Viccy__!_" cried Fred's voice as he drifted back into the kitchen, followed closely by George. "Ma belle, ma cherie, ma Botticelli angel! Too long 'ave my eyes gone without seeing ma petite piccola."

Victoire let out a squeak of delight and instantly let go of her mother's hand, flying across the room towards the twins, grinning from ear to ear. Nox could only gape in amazement. Most five year old children she knew would have run from the kitchen screaming at the sight of a ghost, but Victoire was trying her very best to grab fistfuls of Fred's silvery hair.

"What have you got me for Christmas?" she demanded in a very good impression of her mother's voice. "Do you have it here? Can I see it now?"

"Got you?" Fred yawned. "What you on about? I haven't got you anything. You get anything, George?"

George shrugged his shoulders and shook his head sadly. "Nup, not a thing. Only good little children get pressies, I'm afraid. And seeing as there aren't any of those around here, the whole house is currently presentless."

Victoire pouted sullenly and stamped her foot on the ground. "But I _have_ been good!"

"You two are truly terreeble," the tall woman admonished, pulling her daughter away from them. "Do not listen to zem, _Vic-twar_, they are only teesing you. Ah, Molly! You 'ave outdone yourself thees year I theenk."

Mrs Weasley seemed to forget her grievances and cooking at once, glowing with pride as she was at the compliment. "Thank you, Fleur," she said in a very modest tone of voice. "That is very kind of you to say so."

"Eet is good, I theenk, to 'ave ze décor of a house in keeping with its surroundings, don't you agree, Bill?"

Bill instantly grabbed a sack of presents and made a beeline for the door, muttering something about decorating the Christmas tree. Mrs Weasley's eyes were beginning to narrow suspiciously.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Only zat a house in ze Engleesh country suits ze quaint and 'umble look," said Fleur, tossing her silvery hair over one shoulder. Mrs Weasley seethed, squeezing the wand in her hand so fiercely that she caused the lid covering a pot of boiling potatoes to explode into the air with a loud bang.

By eight o'clock, the dinner guests had all arrived and people of all ages, shapes and sizes were squeezing themselves around the long table in the centre of the kitchen, chatting and laughing and downing glasses (or, in the case of the giant of a man at the far end of the table, by the barrel) of mulled wine and Firewhiskey. Nox found herself sitting beside Hermione Granger on one side and a jittery Dedalus Diggle on the other, who she remembered meeting in Leicester Square several months ago in summer. It seemed so long ago now since the day she had first accepted Dedalus Diggle's help and written down the directions to Weasley Manor on a paper napkin.

Luna's hand was flapping at Nox from the other end of the table, a wreath of holly and ivy circling her head. She had arrived at _the Burrow_ with her father, Xenophilius Lovegood, whose one good eye would occasionally swivel around to Nox and stare at her for minutes on end until she felt forced to turn and smile at him, but every time she did he would swivel away again, looking vexed and extremely uncomfortable. Perhaps Luna's eccentricities weren't as much of a wonder, with a father like Xenophilius.

At last Mrs Weasley presented the turkey and the guests all applauded as she set it down in the centre of the table, only to squeak in surprise a moment later when it hopped off the silver platter and began tap-dancing down the table.

"_FRED! GEORGE!_" Mrs Weasley bellowed. "Stop that this instant!"

"Sorry Mum!" Fred and George chorused, without a hint of remorse.

"Ah well, think yourself lucky you've only got them one night of the year, Mum," said Bill, grinning. "I don't suppose Nox is quite so lucky. Pass me a bit of that meat, Ginny – no, no, the bloodier piece on the left."

"I'd be dead chuffed living in a house with Uncle Fred and Uncle George," a small boy with a shock of festively-coloured red and green hair boldly proclaimed to a starry-eyed Victoire. "Hermie told me their house has a hundred thousand rooms in it and there's dragons and treasure and all sorts of monsters and chimeras in 'em!"

Nox choked miserably on a spoonful of chicken-pie. "God, I hope not…"

"Teddy, it's _Her-mi-on-e_," Hermione corrected, turning a little pink in the cheeks. "And I said no such thing about that house."

Teddy glowered mutinously at her, then fell back into conspiratorial whispers with Victoire.

"'Ere, Fred, George!" shouted the giant of a man (who Nox later discovered was indeed part giant). "How's my Fluffy doin', eh? He settlin' into that house of yours al'right?"

"Not too bad, Hagrid. He's got his own room now and everything," said Fred. "Bit difficult to walk, mind. Not to mention, the humongous heaps of shi-"

_"Fred..."_

"Sorry, Mum."

"Don't'choo worry 'bout walkin' him no more!" said the giant, Hagrid, and took a long swig of something from what looked to be a dustbin. "Got summat fer yeh right here that'll help with that, al'right. Himalayan rope; strongest in the world!"

Both twins' faces lit up in excitement.

"Bloody Hell, Hagrid!"

"You're_ kidding_…"

"That stuff's damn near impossible to get your hands on."

"We know – we've _tried_."

"Who _is_ Fluffy?" Nox asked, fearing the answer.

"You 'aven't shown 'er Fluffy?!" Hagrid bellowed in surprise. "Imagine that. Livin' under the same roof with a three-headed dog an' not knowin' nothin' about it!"

Nox turned pale. "A three-headed dog… Of course. Why not." She downed the last of her drink then promptly poured herself another.

"Hagrid," a young man with dark hair and glasses began, carefully, "not everybody likes three-headed dogs…"

"See, I _told_ you there were monsters in there," Teddy told Victoire smugly.

"We use Himalayan rope with the Norwegian Ridgebacks," said Charlie through a forkful of turkey and stuffing. "It's the only thing in the world that's one hundred percent sure to hold them down right. Enchanted bolts and chains aren't worth the Galleons; there's never any real guarantee they won't break. Nup, if you find you've got a real nasty lizard on your hands, Himalayan rope's the only way to go. How'd you get ahold of it anyway, Hagrid? Takes us months to order it in."

Hagrid began nervously dabbing his neck with a spotted handkerchief. "Er – well – y'know, just one of those lucky things, I s'pose."

Charlie raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Hmm. Right."

"What's a Norwegian Ridgeback?" Nox enquired, giving into her apparently insatiable curiosity.

"They're _brilliant_!" answered Teddy and the twins, while Mrs Weasley, Hermione and the young man with the dark hair and glasses said, "They're_ terrible_," and Charlie simply replied, "They're a breed of dragon."

Nox gawked at him in surprise. "So you do work with dragons, then? I thought those two were just making that up."

"You mean you _hoped_ we were," Fred laughed.

"Where's Percy tonight, Dad?" asked Ginny, looking around the table. "Is he working late again?"

"Percy offered to do my Christmas Eve shift tonight, so he won't be coming round until tomorrow morning," said Mr Weasley, dabbing his mouth with the edge of his napkin (and ignoring the twins who were muttering,_ "Suck up,"_), "but he promised to come round tomorrow. And he's staying for New Year too," Mr Weasley added, with a convincing smile directed at his wife, who nodded glumly.

"Sacre bleu! I 'ad almost forgot! 'Ow seelly of me," cried Fleur, turning gracefully in her seat towards George. "Bill and I 'ave a favour to ask you."

"You know Viktor Lestrade, right?" Bill continued. "Sometimes calls himself Sanguini."

"Oh, I do," Luna piped up. "He's very pleasant. I had a lovely conversation with him once at Slughorn's party."

Fleur made a choking, angry sound in the back of her throat, tossing her silver head indignantly. "Auch! Do not mention that 'orreeble man's name! I 'ave never seen a man climb ze social ladder with ze same drive an' gusto zat Slughorn does. No, 'ee as no class at all. Veektor Lestrade, 'owever; there eez a man with _class, _I theenk"

Luna nodded. "And very brave too."

"How's that, Lu?" enquired another Weasley relation who was sitting next to Hermione.

"Why he's the founder of V.A.M.P, of course," Luna replied incredulously, as if the knowledge was as commonplace as rain.

The lanky man frowned, looking extremely puzzled, and repeated, "_Vamp_…?" He turned to gawp at Hermione who was rolling her eyes, despairingly.

Luna nodded again, twiddling a long piece of hair around the tip of her wand, and continued in a dreamy, faraway tone, "Yes, V.A.M.P – Vampires Against Mauling People."

A few people around the table snorted into their eggnog and turkey, while others pretended not to have heard at all and promptly struck up conversations with their neighbours regarding the weather. Luna, however, was completely unfazed by the reaction and carried on.

"It's a pioneering enterprise, really. Of course, the organisation only has five members now. Two were staked last year."

"No, I wouldn't imagine that it's a very popular movement in the blood-sucking community. They don't like it when their own kind turn on them. Vampires prize loyalty in their breed above everything else," Bill remarked, dryly, but with a very wolfish grin on his face. "Viktor's a good sort of course; different from your average Vamp and he's done more for wizard-Vampire relations than anyone to date. Course, the past few years have seen a change in him since his wife and child were… well… They say it was Voldemort's lot, but nothing was ever made certain." He motioned towards Fleur and added, "We've been going to his annual New Year's ball for the past couple of years."

Fred snorted. "That sounds like a barrel of laughs."

Bill steepled his fingers together and smiled wickedly. "I'm glad you think so, little brother, because you're going in our place this year."

Fred's eyes widened. "Pardonne moi?"

"And George," Bill added.

"You shall 'ave to go too," Fleur stated directly, and Nox realised in horror that the woman had meant her. "You cannot very well stay in zat 'orreeble 'ouse with zat insane Bellatrix woman floating around. Do not worry, I 'ave already informed Veektor that you will be coming too."

Nox wanted to argue that staying in a house with a spectral raving lunatic was exactly what she had been doing over the past few months. Travelling to a house full of vampires seemed to her to be a far more dangerous option and she rather preferred her neck as it was: smooth and un-punctured. However, one look at Fleur's narrowed pale eyes told Nox that she would get nowhere fast arguing with the woman. Facing a vampire was suddenly preferable.

"Why do Fred and George get to go?" the flame-haired man next to Hermione was asking, insistently. "What about me 'n Harry; why didn't you ask us?"

"Because you're a poxy, lanky, whiny, long-nosed git, Ronniekins," Fred stated, flatly.

Ron's cheeks turned scarlet red. "Sod of, dunghead," he muttered, flipping Fred the finger.

"_RONALD!"_ Hermione and Mrs Weasley shouted angrily.

"Viktor Lestrade's New Year balls are famous for the people that attend them: Quidditch elites, Ministry officials, legendary witches and wizards…" Bill took a long sip of his drink, then added as a casual afterthought, "Might be of some help with your new business."

Fred and George shared a knowing smile.

"Nice try, _William_," said George, with a wave of his hand, "but don't underestimate us; I'm afraid we're not as easy to fool as all that. Our lips are still sealed on the subject of our new business venture."

Bill stared at George long and hard, as though he was searching for a kink in a suit of chain mail, but his younger brother was giving nothing away, the veil of his easy, languorous Cheshire cat smile slipping across his face and covering all traces of the secret he shared with his twin and Nox. But no, Nox thought, suddenly – there were others who knew about the intimacies of the house of Weasley Manor; of the writing on the wall and what it meant for Fred if they did not complete its given tasks. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, was a secret keeper and Dedalus of course, though she knew his knowledge of their actions was limited, and the last was someone called Harry Potter, though Nox had no idea who he was.

At that moment she noticed a pair of brilliant green eyes belonging to the young man with the dark hair and glasses who had remained very quiet throughout dinner, and was now watching the exchange between George and Bill carefully. All through dinner he had struck her as a very unextraordinary being, but now she noticed an intensity behind those ordinary round-rimmed glasses that was quite _extraordinary,_ as though they had seen things that no normal person had or ever would witness. The man's green eyes swivelled to Nox and in that half-a-second where her eyes met his, she was reminded of Caithion.

After dinner, Mr Weasley, a tall, lanky man with thinning hair and a patient smile, pointed his wand at the tables and chairs, which shuffled back against the walls so that there was a clear space in the centre of the room. Dedalus Diggle took out a fiddle, Bill a guitar and Charlie an Irish bodhran, and the warblings of Celstina Warbeck were quickly drowned out by the fast-paced Celtic music which began to play, prompting everyone onto the dance floor. More guests had begun to arrive and _the Burrow's_ kitchen, despite its magical expansion, soon felt very hot and cramped.

At around half-past nine, Fred beckoned Nox through to a little room at the back of the house, which looked to normally function as a sitting room, but right now had a far more important purpose. Nox paused on the threshold, gazing in delight. The room was bathed in golden light, the nimbus of a hundred candles flickering on a Christmas tree which rose, proudly, from floor to ceiling, its baubles and bells crafted from painted sugared almonds and marzipan, twinkling like stars amongst the branches – but it was not the Christmas tree that had Nox gaping, transfixed, on the threshold. In the middle of the room, rising from the floor to three quarters of the Christmas tree's height, was a fairytale castle, all turrets and towers and so intricate in detail you could even make out the weeds growing out between the cracks in the brickwork. There were lights in all the windows and gentle music was drifting towards them from an open door carved from oak and emblazoned with four animal crests: a badger, an eagle, a lion and a snake.

Nox turned to look at Fred, a mixture of happiness and astonishment on her face. "You made this?"

Fred held up his pale hands and shook his head. "Only the blueprints. It was mostly George, Hati and Flaversham. You know, that old Muggle isn't half-bad now," he said, then added, "cheers mainly to us."

Curiously, she peered through the castle's stained-glass windows. Inside, there were hundreds of classrooms and dormitories, moving staircases and portraits, and at the centre of it all an enormous hall lit by thousands of miniscule candles hovering over four long tables. But more extraordinary than anything else were the people walking to and fro, eating in the main hall, duelling in the courtyards and chatting away as if they were living, breathing creatures.

"It's beautiful," she said, breathlessly. "It's incredible."

"It's Hogwarts."

She touched one of the windows gently and repeated, "Hogwarts…"

"…School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yeah. Know every secret passageway, dungeon, loft, spy-hole, courtyard and invisible door to that place, I do." He smiled. "Well…_almost_. But where would be the fun in knowing everything? Suck the adventure right out of life, that would."

"You mean _death_." Nox smiled.

"Precisely!" He winked slyly, drifting down to kneel beside her, and maybe it was the copious amounts of mulled wine and eggnog she had consumed, or the number of songs Dedalus Diggle had insisted she dance with him to, but Nox did not shiver with the cold as she normally did when Fred brushed against her. In fact, she was still so hot and clammy from dancing in the crowded kitchen that his coolness was almost a welcome. She peered at the ghost out of the corner of her eye. Fred was looking through a window in one of the towers, a distant smile in his eyes. "Most of it's made from glass and clay; not a patch on the real thing, but accurate enough." He turned and grinned. "Merlin, I've got a few stories to tell you about that place, all right. Nowhere in the world quite like Hogwarts."

"Nowhere indeed," George echoed behind him. Victoire was clutching his shirt and gazing timidly at the castle and Teddy, who was wrapped around George's left leg like a koala bear, could only stare with saucer-sized eyes at the enormous Hogwarts castle. "I dunno, Fred. Don't think these wretches really deserve our present. I mean, we did go all out this year and I'm sure there are plenty more children out there who are far more deserving, wouldn't you say?"

Fred sighed dramatically. "Yep, I'd say that's about the size of it. Ah well, might as well chuck this in the bin then, seeing as we've got bugger all use for it."

"The only wretch around here is you, Fred Weasley," a voice suddenly declared from the doorway behind George. Everyone peered around.

A young woman came further into the room, the distraction allowing Teddy and Victoire a chance to dash towards the Hogwarts castle. She was very beautiful; tall, dark-skinned with an athletic build and long braided hair, and though the tone of her voice had been reproachful, there was a warm smile on her face. The reaction in Fred was instantaneous.

"I'm sure I haven't a clue what you mean, Angelina," he said in an angelic tone that was no more convincing than a fox's oath. Then he drifted over to greet Angelina, appreciative silver eyes looking her up and down in an exaggerated manner. "Hmm, you're on perfect form I see. Quidditch season's definitely done you good."

"The Holyhead Harpies are a good bunch," Angelina replied, ignoring his bate with the air of one who had suffered many years of practise. "We've been moving up the league faster than a snitch these past two years, specially with Ginny on the team. Course, we lack the two greatest Beaters on this side of the earth," she said, fixing a rather severe look on each twin in turn. "If _someone_ hadn't up and died, I might have been able to convince Gwenog to hire the two of you."

Fred rolled his eyes. "Yeah, how selfish of me."

"Afraid it wouldn't make much of a difference, Angie," said George. "We're pranksters by trade. Not to mention we're up to our eyeballs with our new business venture which, thanks to certain people who can't keep their traps shut, is no more a secret than the Malfoys real Death Eating allegiance."

Angelina nodded slowly. "Yes. I heard about that. Lee forced a copy of Witch Weekly on me." Angelina's dark eyes slid across to Nox, who suddenly felt as though she were being studied and scrutinised very carefully.

"You must be Gertrude." Grinning, Angelina held out a hand towards her and Nox tried not to wince at woman's vice like grip; Quidditch had to be a sport of some sort, with hand-crushing strength like that. "Angelina Johnson. I'm an old friend of the twins."

"You can call me Nox," said Nox, flexing her semi-crushed hand, and for the next ten minutes she found herself engrossed in a conversation about Quidditch; a wizarding sport played entirely in flight on the back of broomsticks, of all things. It was an odd thought trying to imagine Fred and George on the back of a broomstick – all the images of flying broomsticks she remembered from her children's picture-books were of fat, old, beak-nosed women flying across a yellow cheese moon on the back of a broom, a skeletal black cat perched on its end. Even odder still was the newfound knowledge that the wizarding sport even had its own World Cup (Nox wondered if the Scottish and English Quidditch teams were any more successful in the leagues than their Muggle football equivalents).

When she left the living room, Fred and Angelina were laughing and guffawing loudly about something relating to a Yule Ball, which she took to mean a school dance that Hogwarts had once held. As she listened to them talking, she thought perhaps that Fred and Angelina had been a couple before he had been killed. But if that had been true, surely they would still be together now, or was there some sort of taboo against mortal/ghost relationships that she wasn't yet aware of?

Nox paused in the hallway, with the distant idea that she might grab a fag and take a walk outside. The thought of crunching through the snow on a crisp night appealed to her, still feeling hot and flushed from the drink and the dancing. She headed back into the kitchen, where a very inebriated Charlie Weasley and Hagrid were bellowing out a familiar song, one arm flung around each, while their free arms were wrapped tightly around the shoulders of a very bemused looking Mr and Mrs Granger. At the far end of the kitchen, Fleur and Mrs Weasley were having a heated argument over who should do the dishes. A group of women were huddled around Hermione, waiting in turn to look at the modest wedding ring on her finger, while across the room, men were taking it turns to slap a fiercely blushing Ron hard on the back. Nox recognised one of the men as Lee Jordan, the twins' best friend, and she suddenly realised that it had been his voice coming over the wizarding wireless.

And then she was outside in the crisp, snowy evening, breathing the chilly air and watching the smoke of her lit cigarette rise up amongst the flecks of drifting snow. Every now and again, a sliver of silver moonlight would break through the clouds, casting a ghostly glow over the blanketed countryside. Nox walked around to the far side of _the Burrow_ and into a neighbouring field where the snow was deep and difficult to wade through. Her cheeks and the tips of her fingers felt numb with the cold and her nose was running profusely, but the air she breathed felt so clean and unpolluted - not like the heavy smog of London - that she could not bring herself to go back inside just yet. This was her favourite kind of weather really, where all the unsightly things – cars, buses, traffic lights, factories, the Tate Modern – disappeared under a mask of clean, white snow. It was at that moment, while she was trying to think up more romantic metaphors, that her foot caught a small boulder and she face-planted the snow, which wasn't so soft and fluffy as it deceptively appeared.

"_Bollocks, bollocks…_" Nox grumbled, wincing as she pushed herself off her skinned knees and onto her bottom. She had a large scrape on one knee and the palms of her hands were now red-raw and blistered. Nox swivelled around and glared at the small boulder responsible for knocking her from her feet; she didn't know why, but she had the strong sense that it was mocking her, peeking out of the snow as it was like a Weasley twin who had just laid a trap. In a fit of silliness, she gathered up a large snowball and hurtled it at the face of the boulder, the force of the blow dislodging some of the ice that had formed over its surface. Nox turned pale. Then hesitantly, she edged forwards on her hands and knees, oblivious to the icy snow against her open scrapes and blisters, and tentatively brushed away the remaining frost.

Another second later she had leapt to her feet and was staggering backwards, gasping, her arms wind-milling wildly, when a pair of hands caught her by the shoulders and brought her to an abrupt standstill. She looked up and found George staring down at her, a puzzled look on his face.

"You forgot your jacket, Muggle-head," he stated plainly, and promptly dumped her long blue coat over her head, its heavy brass buttons bumping against the bridge of her nose. She gratefully wrapped it around her shoulders, suddenly aware of the freezing temperature.

"So," George drawled, a smirk on his face, "fancy explaining why you were hurling snowballs at my dear dead twin's gravestone?"

Deciding that there was no way in which she could explain that would save her pride, Nox opted for the short, honest option. "The damned thing tripped me up."

To her surprise, George bellowed with laughter. "Blimey! Fred's right, your feet are a bloody hazard. Surprised you haven't broken you scrawny neck yet."

"There's still time yet," she grumbled, but with an ironic quirk of her lips, then cast her eyes back to what was visible of Fred's gravestone poking out of the snow. She had not known that Fred had been buried close to _the Burrow_, though she thought she understood why his family had wanted him to be nearby. Nevertheless, it seemed like quite a lonely spot; the grave's closest companion was an old willow tree that stood in the middle of the field. Nox had never really cast a thought to Fred's grave; it was difficult, almost impossible, to comprehend that the body of the man she had been talking to of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry a half an hour ago, was lying just a few feet beneath her and had done so these past five years.

She noticed George watching her, the moonlight turning his face pale and silver just like Fred's, only older; a perfect image of what his twin might have been.

Quietly, he said, "Bit of a shock to the system, eh."

Nox nodded slowly. "That's an understatement if ever I heard one," she laughed softly. "It's just hard to differentiate between the Fred here and the Fred who yesterday switched my dessert with _Iscream_."

George did not smile. "Actually, I meant everything; all of this."

For a moment there was silence between them, the only sound the distant laughter and bellowed singing of Charlie and Hagrid.

Finally, Nox said, "The past few months have moved by so quickly. You and Fred, Rosewood, Flaversham… the house_…_ I suppose it is a shock to the system to discover that everything you think you know is in fact what it isn't, despite what it should be, like a house that sits in the middle of Islington, big as you please, but is no more visible to normal people than a needle in a haystack. Now that I think it over, I suppose I should have wondered more at all of this, but at the time it felt, not natural, exactly, but like someone had just told me the answer to a sum I already knew in the back of my head." She bit her lip and clasped her hands behind her back, reading the words carved deep into the headstone. "I wonder if I can ever go back to a time when I didn't know."

He glanced at her shortly, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, said in a voice that was almost sly, "I guess that depends on what you really believe."

"Meaning?"

George stuffed his hands into his pockets and began rocking on the heels of his feet. "That everything leaves a mark on you; that when you meet someone, smile at them, chat with them, listen to them, even for a moment, you form a connection with that person and that connection leaves a mark and changes you. But the people and things you come into contact with now are different from the Muggles and situations before and therefore they leave a different kind of mark and a different kind of change: one that's irrevocable. Because of that, you can't go back to a time where you didn't know." He looked at her. "Maybe the real question is, do you want to go back?"

Nox was surprised by his seriousness and the look of intensity on his normally mischievous face, and for a flitting moment she thought she might at last have had a glimpse at the real George, the twin who was always thinking one step ahead of her; who could pick up a person's character with just a handshake and a smile; who never let on what he was thinking to anyone but Fred – and even that wasn't always by choice.

As if he realised he'd said too much he stopped, and laughed, and ruffled her hair. "Anyway, I'm afraid you might be stuck with us for a good while yet, Noxy."

But she pushed his hand away, looking him resolutely in the eye. "Your mother talks like he's still…"

"…Still alive, yeah," George finished, softly. "Now you see why we don't come round as often. It's hard on her, a lot more so than she lets on, and Fred hates seeing her like that. We both do. Mum's always been a bit of a battle-axe, see." He slipped his hands into the pockets of the bottle-green coat he always wore, and watched the moon slip behind the clouds again, a sardonic smile on his face. "You know, when he first came back, Mum couldn't see him at all, just like a Muggle can't. It didn't matter if Fred was talking or shouting at her, to Mum he just wasn't there." He chuckled. "Those first two months were hell."

Without the moonlight, the countryside became dark and haunted, the old willow tree taking on a sinister appearance, like a crooked old man bent under the weight of the snow.

Then George said abruptly, "I wasn't there when it happened."

Nox knew exactly what he meant. Suddenly she felt so angry with him that it trembled through her. "You didn't have to say that," she said shortly. "You don't need to tell me you weren't there. You don't have to apologise for something you didn't do, least of all to me. Regretting the past is living in the past." Frowning, she turned away, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. "Nobody should have to live like that."

For a moment, George said nothing and Nox fidgeted on the spot, her anger changing to worry that she had said too much.

As if he had read her thoughts, George smiled at her; a dark, sideways smile. "I appreciate your concern," he said honestly.

There was something going on behind George's eyes, something brewing, wheels turning, a brilliant mind at work, but at what, Nox could never quite put her finger on and neither did she want to, because she knew that some things were never meant to be understood or analysed to the point where there was none of that wonderful mystery left. Snow began to drift faster around them and she wondered how long it would be before Fred's headstone was entirely covered. She had the sudden urge to get down on her hands and knees and start shovelling the snow away. The idea that Fred was lying there alone under eight feet of earth and snow, while his family and friends celebrated in the house behind them, was almost unbearable.

"I like you a lot, Nox," George said, suddenly. "There's no pussy-footing around with you. But you're also the biggest hypocrite I've ever met. If you weren't you wouldn't be carrying on your dad's business; work you remind us daily of how much you hate, but you do it anyway because he's not around anymore. Isn't that living in the past?"

She stared up at him, feeling numb at his words. There was something cold and distant in George's tone that made her uneasy. Nevertheless, as if the wind had changed, the expression on his face turned bright and amused again, and he jabbed a thumb towards the house, his keen face lit with enthusiasm, as though nothing at all had transpired between them.

"Shall we?" George offered his arm.

Smiling, Nox made to accept it when a heavy object in the inside pocket of her coat bumped against her side. She paused then said, "I'll catch up to you," and pulled the nutcracker doll that Caithion had given to her as a Christmas present the previous week. There was stitching on the soldier's hat that she had not noticed before. It read simply: _the Tod._

Smiling, Nox pulled the hat from the nutcracker's thick head of flaming red hair and then the rifle slung over his shoulder, and placed both beside Fred's grave, reading the engraved words one last time:

_Here lies Fred Gideon Weasley  
Master prankster  
beloved son, brother  
and cheerful young bugger_

**oOo**

"Where the bugger did those two get to…?" Fred grumbled, scratching his head in wonder. He was drifting through the apple orchards close to _the Burrow_, peering between the snowy trees and bushes.

So far the evening had been as unpleasant as he'd expected. Fred had half expected his mother to turn around any minute and say, "Oh, darling, you can't go around wearing that tatty, dead, thing all your life. And don't you think it's about time you cut your hair? Here, I'll do it for you, dear…"

And Bill was becoming increasingly suspicious. Perhaps taking part of Weasley Manor's riddle to his curse-breaking brother hadn't been such a bright idea after all. Being the eldest, Bill always liked to be in the know about his brothers' activities; especially if it concerned he and George.

Percy was nowhere to be seen, as per every Christmas. Five years and the great, speckled, git was still letting his guilt eat up his insides.

Worst of all had been Angelina; drop-dead-beautiful Angelina. First Nox had left the living room, closely followed by George, leaving Fred with Angelina to reminisce about old Quidditch games, Wood's lectures and Harry's DA sessions, and for a while he managed to kid himself that she saw him just as she had always seen him. Then he had to go and dredge up the night of the Yule Ball, when it had just been the two of them sitting in a frosted courtyard, far away from the music and the dancing. Angelina had gone quiet. The conversation turned dull thereafter and she made a hasty retreat to the kitchen. Fred thought bitterly of the happily every after ballet.

"Speaking of which," he muttered to himself, "where are you, Mug-a-lug...?"

Nox. Now there was a topic. One of the things Fred found so intriguing about the gangly, short, Muggle detective was something he would have found equally off-putting in anybody else. Nox was serious and not in the way some diligent hard-working pencil-pushers like Percy were serious. Nox was serious, not just about her work, but about_ everything_, even the mundane chores like scrubbing the toilet or hanging out the washing. You could tell from the look in her eyes – dark, grey and always one hundred percent focused; the look of someone who was forever pouring all their brainpower into discerning not only why a raven is like a writing desk, but whether it was the chicken or the egg that came first, what really killed the dinosaurs and the real cause and solution for global warming.

When Fred had first met her, he had been fully convinced that Nox's serious outlook on life was due to an empty bank account and a rather dull personality, but now he knew better. Every now and again you meet someone who pours their heart and soul into every little thing they do because they genuinely care and live by the old adage, if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. Once he had realised that, he realised he had more in common with Nox than he had initially thought possible. She was passionate. Heck, she was as passionate about your common attic ghoul as he was about explodeable toilet seats, and he wondered, for the briefest moments, if Nox cared so much about the silly things, like taking the rubbish out and picking his twin's hairs from the plughole in the bath, how much would she care about something that really mattered, such as… He paused. Such as what exactly: family; a friend. A lover?

Fred stopped there. That was dangerous territory, even for him. The idea of his gangly Muggle detective in any sort of romantic situation was a strange and alien thought, rather like walking through the rain in sandals – a new and unfamiliar sensation that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but best not to spend too much time on lest you get…pneumonia…

Moreover, when had he started referring to Nox as _his_?

"Oi, god, cor and blimey!" snapped a prickly voice close to his ear. "I mean, _Christssake,_ you folks don't half think a load of bollocks. If you talked as much as you thought, even at half the speed, you'd 'ave lived two bloody lifetimes before you'd come to any sort of a fecking outcome! Not that you've got any living left in yeh, but we're talkin' metaphorically now, ain't we?"

Fred blinked and looked around, peering into the snowy apple orchards behind him. After a minute of searching the still and silent trees, he began to wonder whether or not he'd imagined the voice. The accent was strange – he couldn't quite place it. At first he had been sure the voice rang with a thick cockney accent, but now that he played it back in his head it sounded almost Australian… or had there been a German twang to it?

Fred took another look around the apple orchards, floating in and out of the trees. The drifting snow made the orchards seem deeper, darker, and all at once he was reminded of the old tree at Rosewood Estate.

"Oi, who's there?" he called. There was no echo, and the darkness seemed to swallow up his voice.

Then the prickly, disembodied voice spoke again. "Oh? You expectin' a conversation from me, ay? Hmph. That's wizards for yeh. Typically presumptuous and all mouth, no trousers. No troubling themselves with a simple 'how'd yeh do'. Really, ah can't stand the lot of yeh."

"Can't say disembodied voices are my cup of tea either." Fred's face melted into a smirk. He propped his hands on his waist and continued to look around. "Where are you?"

"Ain't the brightest star in the sky, are you, mate? Or ghost, as it looks. How'd that happen, then?" asked the disembodied voice, sounding vaguely amused and now with a thick Scottish accent.

"A dirty big wall fell on my head," Fred answered simply.

"Houses just ain't built like they used to be," the voice said with a distinct shrug. "Insurance pay out?"

"No. Doesn't cover acts of insane, menstruating witches bent on carnage. Look, I'm not about to stand here all night talking to my shadow…"

"You ain't got a shadow," the voice flatly pointed out.

"That's neither here nor there," said Fred impatiently, waving an airy hand, "as am I, which you've been kind to point out, so it stands to reason that you can clearly see me, but I can't see you, which makes you, in my book, pretty damned suspicious. So unless you fancy revealing yourself any time in the next twenty seconds or so, I'll be off." He waited a moment, counting the seconds off in his head. Then, when it appeared that the disembodied voice had no intention of becoming embodied, Fred gave a half-hearted shrug. "No? Well then, guess I'll be going. Night!"

He turned to float back down the snowy path towards the house, when the voice came again.

"_Ghosts_," it grunted, sullenly. "I hates folk like you, I do. Can't decide whether you're comin' or going. You're the bane of my sort. Anyway, look up."

Grinning satisfactorily, Fred did as instructed and found himself looking at the most extraordinary young man crouched, frog-like, amongst the branches of the tree he had been floating under. The creature, or man, he was faced with looked quite elfish in appearance and the very personification of sinister. The first thing Fred noticed were his fingers: long, bony things, like winter branches, and sharpened at the end in what looked like pieces of glass (or was that black ice?). His silver hair shot back from his forehead in strange, spiking, tendrils, as though he were wearing a crown of icicles, and while the overall effect was reminiscent of the late Nymphadora Tonks, Fred was sure the elfish man, whose delighted eyes were ranging over him, was not a Metamorphmagus.

"Look, do you mind? Your thoughts is spilling into my thoughts and it's givin' me a ruddy headache," said the elf-man disdainfully, and now with an accent that was caught between East Londoner and Liverpudlian.

Fred shivered. There was a nip in the air, but he didn't stop to think why or how he should be able to feel it. "Not that I want to point out the obvious or anything, but how can you hear my thoughts?" he asked. "Aren't there rules against that sort of thing?"

"What's he think he's human or something? HA!" The man threw his head back and gave a harsh crow of laughter. "Ghosts ain't like humans, are they? Ghosts are made of memories and bits of soul all bunged up together in a reflection. They ain't like humans – humans has got nice thick skulls to keep all their thoughts bottled up in, but you, you've got nothing but cold air so all your thoughts go flying about and smacking innocent bystanders like me in the face. So try and think a bit quieter – or better yet, _not at all_."

Fred quirked his mouth in an ironic grin. "All right, fair dos. That makes a quarter of an eighth of sense, which is more than enough for me, but," he floated closer, "that doesn't go as far to explain what you are. And why you've been following me. So tell me, you a goblin, Vengeful, what –?"

The sinewy man reared back in disgust. "GOBLIN, he says! GOBLIN!" His electric blue eyes flashed angrily. "Feh, a goblin indeed. Cheeky bugga'. Thought wizards were a level smarter than your average Muggle. No –" He hopped down from his tree branch and made Fred a great sweeping bow. "– Jack Frost, mate, if you don't mind; Winter Solstice elf at your service."

Fred stared at the strange, leering elf for a long moment. Then he said, "Bleeding nutter," and turned to drift back towards _the Burrow_, but the moment he did he found himself nose-to-nose with the peculiar creature who had moved so quickly, Fred's eyes hadn't even registered a blur.

"No? And ah don't suppose vampires and dragons, and ghosts don't exist, neither. Arrogant little whelp." The elf took another step forwards in an alarmingly jolty manner, as though his wiry body was held up by invisible strings attached to his arms and legs like a puppet. Fred instinctively recoiled. His skin was so pale it was almost blue and there were deep, dark shadows underneath his icy eyes. On closer inspection, the elf looked more like an Inferi; a corpse controlled by Dark Wizards' magic, but one look at his eyes told Fred otherwise. He felt as though he was being scrutinised with a magnifying glass, every silver freckle on his face examined, analysed and the information stored away for uses he could not imagine and frankly did not want to.

"You got a nasty curse on you, mate," the elf said quietly. "Written all over yer face, just like measles. How'd yeh catch that then? Rare for a ghost to catch a curse, innit? Muggles and wizards and witches, yeah, but ghost curses I ain't heard much about. An' I've been about the block a bit: near a thousand years, me."

"Crikey! Does everyone and their Nan know about that?" Fred grumbled, glowering, but his complaints went ignored.

"Saw you with a girl in that house there." The elf grinned, running one sharp, black nail down the trunk of the nearest apple tree, leaving a trail of frost that glittered like a snail-trail in the pale moonlight. "_Huge tracks of land,_ if you know what I mean. Pity, like. Can't do much about it in the position yer in, can you? Not like the feeling's real on your part anyway. S'like I said, you're only a ghost." His icy eyes glimmered wickedly and Fred felt the urge to punch him straight in the nose bubble up inside of him like water on the boil. "There's another one in-all, pokin' around yer grave. Popular fellar, aren't yeh?"

"What you on about?" Fred growled, impatiently.

"Gotcher conk!" the elf suddenly cried with glee, wrapping his fingers around Fred's nose.

"GER'OFF!" he shouted, rearing back furiously.

The elf clasped his hands behind his back with a teasing and slightly mad grin on his face. "Nice talkin' to you, even if yer a bit of a deadbeat, but I've gotta be off; rooftops to dust, toes to nip, small furry animals to freeze t' death – all that festive junk." And with a_ POP_ he was gone, dissolving into the night in a flurry of tiny ice crystals.

Bemused, Fred glanced around the apple orchards for any sign of the sinewy elf, but it looked like he had disappeared for good this time. "Jack Frost…" He put a hand to his forehead and laughed. "I'm going round the bend…"

There was another _POP!_ Then…

"One more thing: I have a bit of information for you," said the elf, beaming. He was hanging upside down from a low tree branch and picking his nose very thoughtfully, as if he'd lost a priceless gem up his left nostril. "You might want to keep an eye out. Plenty worse things than dyin', you know. Like curried beans. And vegetarians. Not that you've got a horde of bean-waving veggies chasing after your hide. It'd be fine sailing if you did, mind. Not much effort required in getting rid of them. Gettin' rid of _Her_, though; that's a bugger and a half. By the way, you didn't give me your name."

"Get stuffed," said Fred shortly and casually drifted through him. "What do you think I am, exactly: a first year wizard? 'Never give your full name or birthday to a spirit, dearie! That's just asking for trouble!'" he said in a high-pitched, squeaky imitation of his mother. "It's right up there with 'don't talk to strangers' and 'don't pick your nose with your wand'."

"Fine, fine. Have it your way. I just thought, once we were acquainted and everythin', you might like to know a nasty little secret about that secretary of yours."

Alarmed, Fred spun around, but he was just in time to see the elf grin wickedly, wave his long wintry fingers at him and shout, "Toodles!" and he was gone.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N: **OH! I have a new trailer for Twin Vice on youtube if anyone fancies checking it out (link's on my profile ). Catch the bit about Viktor Lestrade? Yep? Good, because he's the next casebook – old spooky castle in the middle of Germany's Black Forest, anyone? Onwards to the next casebook! Mwaha...


	17. Casebook 03: The Black Forest

**A/N:** Over 200 reviews now! Thank you so much - naked twins and assorted WWWs products to everyone! Finally got to the third casebook. You can expect to see a couple of familiar faces. Oh, and this casebook really starts the romance rolling - well, I really owe it to you lot after 17 chapters XD

As usual, the links to fic fanart and music videos/trailers can be found in my profile! x

**Note:** Fenrir, Skald and Garm (or Moongarm) were three wolf sons of the God Loki in Norse mythology. Skald and Garm chased the sun and moon, and it was prophesised that Fenrir would bring about the end of the world.

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook 03: The Black Forest

**oOo**

_Once upon a time, there was a girl named Gudrun who lived on the edge of the Black Forest. She was beautiful and strange, and far cleverer than any man who would be her suitor. The people in the surrounding villages often whispered of her, 'One of the Snow-Walkers,' they muttered, sometimes fearful, sometimes awed, 'Definitely not one of us. Why, she could even be a Queen'._

_Around her shoulders, Gudrun wore a red cloak (all the better to see her with) and often she would travel deep, deep into the forest, for she was a fearless girl who did not mind the dark places of the world. One night, as she was walking through a grove beneath a bright, full moon, she met a wolf. His name was Skald and his coat was silver and pale as the moon at which he howled. At once, Gudrun fell in love with the strangeness of his voice._

_"Pretty wolf," she whispered, "why do you howl at the moon?"_

_"Because my brother was tricked by the cat to spend all eternity hanging there," the wolf replied, though wary. Never before had such a young girl come so willingly into his forest. "Are you not afraid of me?"_

_"Pretty wolf," she whispered again, running her fingers through his fur and grasping his ears; her hands were gentle but cold as ice and when she smiled, there was something very dreadful in her eyes, "the only thing I fear is Death."_

_From their union there came a cursed creature that was neither man nor wolf, but as terrible and cruel as the Snow Queen whom Gudrun grew up to be, and soon there were many of its kind; an army fit for her war against Godric Gryffindor._

_And that is how Werewolves came into being._

**- From 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard'**

**oOo**

**  
**It was two hours before sunrise and the sky overhead the White Cliffs of Dover was inky black and thunderous. George rubbed his hands and stamped his feet on the grass in a vain effort to stop the blood from turning to ice in his veins. The air was freezing and every breath he took was a shock to the system. Shifting the broomstick strapped to his back, he checked his gold wristwatch for the third time in the last two minutes - 5:58am. He tapped the face impatiently, willing the tiny gold hands to move faster. The wristwatch had been an heirloom passed down from his late Uncle Fabian, who had been killed in the First War against Lord Voldemort. The watch had a twin which first belonged to Fabian's brother, Gideon, and had been in turn passed down to Fred, but was later lost during the Battle of Hogwarts. Nevertheless, the ghost of Gideon's watch was still visible around Fred's pale wrist, the little hands pointing to the exact time of his death.

5:59am.

"Not long now." George wiped his running nose and peered over the edge of the cliff, scanning the dark waters carefully. "Bill said it always docks bang on time."

"Not that we know _what's_ docking," Fred mused. He was sitting with his legs slung carelessly over the edge and making a makeshift telescope with his hands. "But that's half the fun, isn't it. Leap first, ask questions later." He turned and leered at Nox who was standing a safe distance from the edge. "Right, Noxy?"

"Hmm," she mumbled, distractedly.

Fred frowned at her. "Why are you standing over there? Come and get a look at the view." He patted the ground beside him.

"There is no view. It's the middle of the night." She turned her back to him, fidgeting with something in her pocket. "Even if there was a view I could see it perfectly from here, cheers."

"Not from way back there, you can't." Fred leaned his chin on one propped up knee, his left leg still dangling over the cliff edge. "If you lean over far enough you can make out the White Cliffs just fine, even in this light."

"I've seen them before."

Fred and George exchanged a wicked grin.

"Oh, yeah? When was that then?" George enquired.

"Back in the days when her head was only the size of a double-decker bus I'd wager, George."

"Don't quite know how that skinny little frame manages to balance all that weight."

"Defying the laws of physics there, alright." Fred scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Must get terrible neck strain."

"Bless her wee heart."

Instead of responding with the usual threats of stapling their heads together, or some other form of stationary-related torture, Nox simply smiled at them in a beatific sort of way, as though their jibes and teasing had no more effect than a tick scratching away at an elephant's backside.

Bemused, Fred leaned in close to George's remaining ear. "Think she's been possessed?"

George shrugged his shoulders. "Either that or she's finally found her inner Zen. Perhaps she'll enlighten us both with hitherto unsuspected wisdom."

"Riiight." Fred looked unconvinced. "But if a third eye opens up in her forehead and she starts debating the art and philosophy of divination, she's fired."

"Definitely."

The air suddenly split with the deafening boom of a foghorn that bellowed, not below, but from above their heads. George groaned, cupping the earless, unprotected hole on the right side of his head. He felt as though his eardrum had just been exposed to a troll with a battering ram.

"Flipping, buggering, arsehead and hole," he grumbled, looking at his watch; the little hands were pointing to six o'clock.

The next moment, a large anchor crashed down onto the plateau, followed by a wooden boarding ramp, old and rickety and covered in barnacles. Hovering just a few feet above them was a large ship, its pink spotted sails billowing like an enormous pair of bloomers in the stiff sea-breeze. Then a face appeared over the side, grizzled and scowling irritably.

"Get on board, we're three seconds late!" the man bellowed, jabbing a dirty finger at them,."I don't do dillydallyin' on this ship, passengers or no, so get on with it or get on your way!"

Neither Fred nor George had to be ordered twice, scrambling up the slippery ramp with eager, almost greedy looks upon their faces. It wasn't until they were both onboard that they realised their detective was still standing on land, hands firmly tucked in the pockets of her long coat, large grey eyes staring uncertainly at the air-born ship.

"Oi, oi! You heard the Captain, Nox – on you get, yeh landlubbering seadawg!" Fred shouted over the side.

"No…I don't think so…" Nox coughed embarrassedly into her hand, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "I think I left the tumble-dryer on."

"We don't have a tumble-dryer," George pointed out.

"Then I should go and buy one."

There were two loud _cracks_ one after the other; before Nox could even attempt to disentangle herself from George's grip, scramble off the slippery deck and back onto solid ground again, the ramp was lifted, the anchor was drawn in, the foghorn had sounded and the airship was rising higher and higher into the chill night, its tall mast disappearing into the cloud. Two large blue wings were extending along the port and starboard sides of the ship and the noisy whir of a propeller could be heard above the shouts of the ship-hands and the bellowing of the Captain. Releasing his grip on the detective's skinny shoulders, George joined Fred who was peering curiously over the edge. The airship's wings appeared to be swarming with thousands of tiny winged creatures, like miniature Cornish pixies, beating their wings frantically against the strong air currents. Along the airship's hull, scrawled in tall, gothic, black, letters was the title, _The Earnest Vice._

After a few minutes of shouting and all hands on deck, the airship broke through the first patch of cloud. Several hanging lamps were lit along the port and starboard sides and up the mast, where George noticed his usually composed detective clinging to for dear life. Before he could confront her fears, however, his attention was taken up by the Captain hobbling towards him.

Blood instantly drained from his face. Beside him, Fred was releasing a sting of expletives that would make a Death Eater blush, but George could only gawp silently, staring with wide eyes at the ghost they were confronted with – or not a ghost, it seemed, but a very familiar figure alive and in the flesh who they had deemed up until five seconds ago to be very much dead.

"Merlin's conks –" said Fred, in a low, awed voice. "– _Moody!_ You absolute sod, I knew it. I bloody _KNEW_ it. What have I been saying, George – never found a body, did they? Cause no flipping Death Eaters could bring Mad-Eye down with one measly hit, that's what I said, and look at you! Alive and kicking – HA! More than I can say for myself, mind."

"What are you babblin' on about, yeh headless deadbeat? No one calls me Mad-Eye," the captain growled menacingly, stepping into a puddle of lamplight and as he did so, his face was thrown into illumination, just as scarred and weather-beaten and frightening as the old Mad-Eye's, but with certain distinct differences: his teeth were filthy black and rotting; a terrible stench of rum and stale meat wafted towards them, causing George to gag and his eyes to water painfully. The captain's nose, though broken, was still more or less intact and instead of the madly rolling magical eye fitted in one socket, there was a blood-stained eye-patch.

George studied the face intently, remembering the last time he had spoken with Mad-Eye all too clearly. His hand seemed to move of its own accord to the hole in the right side of his head. There was no doubt about it. Despite the differences, the captain had a definite, almost uncanny likeness to the deceased Auror, Mad-Eye Moody. A menacing feature on an otherwise comical vessel, the captain was shrouded in a black fisherman's jacket and hat, and smoking something that did not smell much like the tobacco Caithion Sidhe smoked in the office back in London.

"And what," he addressed the two of them, as though they were something stuck to the bottom of his boot, "do you think you're doin' on my ship without paying the aforementioned fee?"

George dug around in his pocket before locating a dragon-skin pouch, which he dumped into the Captain's open palm.

"There. Seventy-five Galleons for the three of us. Bit steep for an hour's trip mind, innit? Breakfast had better be included."

"Aye…" A greedy light lit the Captain's one beady eye as it ranged over the gold coins in the bag. "Aye, that'll do. Black Forest, your brother said? Hope Bill told you we don't get too close to the centre at this time of year. Bad things brewing over the Twelve Days, y'know, and there's been some nasty rumours going about lately: werewolves on the run, folks have been sayin'. Couple o' Muggles been attacked in Freudenstadt just last week. Bad omen. Better have your broom ready, lad – we won't be stoppin' long."

"All ready." George nodded, patting the broom across his shoulder with one hand, but Fred was looking furious.

"Pardon me – _'bad things'_," he hissed, spitting the words out as though they were poisoned. "_'Bad things'._ I hereby retract my statement, George. This muppet sure as hell can't be Mad-Eye. Mad-Eye might've been a bleeding nutter, but he sure wouldn't wet his pants at the first sign of -"

"You'd better be keepin' that fat trap of yours closed, Sonny-Jim," the Captain growled, his face suddenly mere inches from Fred's and staring with his one beady eye in great dislike. "'Cause believe me lad, I've seen things in that forest that would make the flesh in your grave crawl, so don't you be tellin' me what's to fear and what ain't." He raised his right arm between them and the twins reared back in disgust – from the elbow upwards the Captain's arm twisted and bent into a grotesque lobster claw that snapped menacingly close to Fred's nose. "A little fear's good for the soul. Maybe if my brother had known that he wouldn't have had his bones hacked up and his eyeball plastered to the wall of a Ministry office."

"You're Moody's brother!" George concluded.

But the captain did not answer, already limping his way heavily across the oaken deck and snarling orders at the crew who had stopped to watch the exchange with filthy, smirking, faces.

"An' enough of this_ Mad-Eye!_" the captain added, turning on them again. "On this ship you'll address me as _Captain_ Moody, unless yeh fancy flyin' with the cumulus!"

Fred and George saluted, the captain having secured their respect (or morbid curiosity; George wasn't quite sure which).

"And look after your boy!" Captain Moody grunted with a nod towards Nox, who was clinging to the mast as if it were her only lifeline. "Daft lad's got the legs of a jellied eel."

George wandered over to the detective, smirking smugly. Nox was turning an increasingly darker shade of green in the face and chanting repeatedly, "It's not so high, it's not so high…_Ohgodohgodohgod..._"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. We're breaking the last of the cloud now, take a look." Fred pointed upwards at the cloudless expanse of dark blue above their heads. "Yep, I'd say we're a mile at _least_ above the White Cliffs now, alright."

Off to the east, the sky was turning a purpley-pink with the first signs of dawn. The air was thin and chill so high above the clouds and the adrenaline of boarding the airship was beginning to fade, but George found his attention completely taken up with the enormous clouds towering around them. He had never thought much about clouds; neither he nor Fred had ever possessed the patience one required to sit about staring at up at the sky all day, but how much they looked like fantastical cities painted in a picture book.

Suddenly, Nox plastered a hand to her mouth, sprinted to the side of the ship and vomited overboard.

"Yeh can bloody well pay for that in all!" the captain hollered.

**oOo**

Houses were peculiar things, Caithion Sidhe mused, poking around the airy office of his current employment. Essentially they were just bricks and wood; man-made constructions with no other purpose than to shield its inhabitants from the wind and the rain. But in time, a house became a home and found its own voice in the creaking of the floorboards and the groaning of its walls. Houses, Caithion decided, were very like trees for both had foundations that reached deep into the earth, and watched the world around them, still and unmoving, for tens or even hundreds of years. A house's personality could be as complex as a human's, for a house had a tendency to pick up on the feelings of its owners and the events which had transpired in and around it throughout the years. Of course, a house in the middle of the forest, particularly the Black Forest in Germany, differed somewhat from a house in the middle of a city, for there tended to be a different, deeper, older kind of magic in forests that one frankly did not find in Soho or down Tottenham Court Road.

But Weasley Manor was not like most houses in London, a fact Caithion was well aware of even if his employers were not. It could not be compared to the neighbouring Angel Hotel, or Buckingham Palace, or even the house in the middle of the Black Forest that his employers were at this very minute making their merry way towards.

His eyes flicked towards the mirror standing, discarded, in a shadowy corner of the office. The glass had long since been shattered and lost, except for a couple of fragments which he had not until quite recently acquired. Removing the drape with a flick of his wrist, Caithion stood facing the shattered mirror, tall and crow-like, with a thin sneer on his long, pale face.

Oval in shape, the mirror was framed by a silver snake as thick as two arms and so alarmingly lifelike that another onlooker might rear back in fright. The snake's maw was frozen open, as if someone had petrified it seconds before it could snap its fanged jaws around the tip of its tail.

All around him, Weasley Manor began to creak and groan in protest to the mirror's unveiling.

_Hide it away,_ Caithion could hear the walls and floorboards demand, _cover it up; it does not belong!_

His narrowed eyes glittered and the thin sneer on his face became more pronounced. "Oh no, there I must disagree. I think you'll find that everything belongs, in some manner or form."

Smirking coldly, Caithion plucked a cigarette from his pocket, slipping it between his lips and lighting it in one graceful, fluid motion. In another moment, the mirror was covered and the house ceased its groans and grumblings at once.

His hand slipped into another pocket deep inside his coat, procuring from it a large, silver-backed, pocket-watch. Caithion turned it over in the palm of his hand so that the silver backing faced upwards, its engraved pictograms so infinite in detail that each time he brought the watch out he found something new to marvel at. He followed the series of pictograms and runes clockwise, reading the already memorised tale of the Snow Queen until he reached the centre where a large 'W' was engraved. Caithion brushed his thumb over it, his nail scraping against the silver.

Fitting, he supposed. After all, the Weasleys always had expressed a certain fondness for clocks.

The shrill scream of the front doorbell announced a visitor. Grimacing, Caithion stuck a long finger in his ear, wiggling it about.

"Doesn't anyone now how to knock?" He turned the pocket watch around in his hand, momentarily forgetting that its face had nothing to do with telling the current time. He knew, however, that it could be no earlier than six o'clock in the morning. His employees had had an early start.

On opening the door, he found Luna Lovegood sitting on the step with her thin arms wrapped around her knees, just as he had found her on the first day of their meeting. His eyes peered sternly over the rim of his square-shaped spectacles at the leather satchel slung across her shoulders. A pamphlet was sticking out from underneath the flap: V.A.M.P – _Stop the suckin'! Keep on truckin'!_

He sighed wearily. "Can I help you, Miss Lovegood?"

"Yes, actually," she replied, getting to her feet. "I was wondering if I could borrow something from you. It's quite important actually. I'm afraid I cannot tell you why exactly, but you would be helping me out of a pickle."

"I see. What is it you want –"

"- to _borrow_–"

"- to borrow precisely, Miss Lovegood?"

"Your lighter." Luna pointed a finger at the small bulge in his shirt pocket. "Only for a few days. I'm going on a trip you see and I have the feeling it may come in handy. My feelings tend to be correct on these occasions, so I thought I might ask you. I've brought an exchange." She lifted the flap of her satchel and pulled a bag of reddish looking weeds. "They're Gurdi roots. My friend Neville says they're very good for night visions and bowel movements."

Caithion accepted them with a wry grin. "You're very clever, my dear, to be making an exchange."

"Hmmm, my mother used to say that for everything that's received, there must be an equal payment in order to keep the natural balance of things." She smiled faintly and held out her hand for the lighter. "There are lots of things worse than a _thief's curse_."

He considered her for a long moment. The day he had met Luna, he had known instinctively that there was something more to her than dreaminess, silly notions and a crush on George Weasley. Caithion chuckled sardonically. He hated it when he was right.

"Well then, I guess I have no choice in the matter." He pulled the skull engraved lighter from his shirt pocket and deposited it into her hand. "After all, I wouldn't want to do any harm to my soul."

Her prominent, unblinking eyes stared through him for a while, then, finally, she nodded her thanks and turned to leave.

"Luna," Caithion stopped her abruptly, his voice now cold and hard, having lost its smooth Irish tones. "Is there something you would ask of me? A gift perhaps – a real gift, anything your heart desires. You have the right to ask."

Luna paused on the step, her pale, protuberant eyes ranging over him carefully and for a moment he thought he glimpsed a look of longing on her dreamy face, heard the whisper of her wish on the tip of her tongue. Then she smiled brightly and shook her head.

"Oh yes, but I think the price would be too steep."

**oOo**

It was one thing flipping through a few brochures or watching a nature program on BBC One with David Attenborough's voice saying, "The Black Forest may conjure up images of a dark and sinister place, but in reality it is one of Germany's greatest natural beauties," and perhaps it was just the fingers of shadow that the nearby mountains cast over the snowy pines below, but as she peered over the oaken edge of _the Earnest Vice_ (having successfully emptied her stomach of breakfast and last night's dinner), Nox had the same feeling she sometimes got when poking about the rooms in Weasley Manor; that there was something_ more_ down there, inexplicable and dangerous, and very old. And it was that sense of ancientness that thrilled and terrified her more than anything.

Nox grimaced at the mess she had made over the side of the ship and shot the grumbling captain an apologetic look, realising with a sinking humiliation that she was failing spectacularly as any sort of a heroine. If Fred and George had hired her father, he'd have been bouncing about all over the ship like a puppy, poking into every nook and cranny and joining in with the twins enthusiasm, not wimping out and barfing all over the White Cliffs of Dover. No, to be a real heroine you had to be brave without succumbing to silly fears and smoking an entire pack of Silk Cut in ten minutes flat.

'_Fine then; New Year's resolution is to become a positive thinker, open to everything and everyone, however mad, and due to enlightened state of mind, I will no longer have a need for fags or drink to overcome irrational fears.' _She groaned and dropped her head into her hands._ 'Oh god, I sound like one of Mum's self-help books. Bugger, bugger, bugger.'_

The problem was that deep down she didn't think flying miles above the earth in a ship the size of a bungalow that was being kept airborne by a pair of giant bloomers, a team of insects and a captain who bore an uncanny resemblance to Long John Silver, wasn't such an irrational fear at all.

One of the pixies on the starboard wing, who had been up until that moment focused solely on beating its tiny blue wings against the wind, turned to look at her green, sickly face and promptly burst into peels of horrid laughter. Soon, the entire starboard wing was laughing uproariously at her, filling the air with spiteful cackling. Nox felt sorely tempted to take off her boot and chuck it at their heads.

Instead, she only grunted, "You wouldn't be so brave if I had a can of bug spray on me."

"LOWER THE ANCHOR," Captain Moody began bellowing at his crew as he remerged from bellowdeck with the twins, "THIRTY FEET! We won't be stoppin' long – full moon tonight. Get that bleedin' propeller stopped _now,_ Flapper, or I'll curse your backside all the way back to Hogsmeade. And you!" He swung George around by the arm, drawing him very close to his one, beady eye. "You mind yourself, lad. That hoity-toity Lestrade might think he's above sucking a fleshie's neck dry, but mind you mark my word, boy – a vampire's still a vampire. You can't change what you are." The lobster-clawed hand clipped the front of George's bottle-green coat, pulling him so close that the captain's mouth was millimetres from the little black hole in the side of his head. "_Constant vigilance._"

The captain's beady eye swivelled to where Fred's faintly glowing body hovered, the red light of dawn shining through it, giving his face an eerily rosy tinge. Then the captain was barking more orders at the crew, but his eye did not waver from Fred's ghost and Nox realised with a sinking realisation why: the effect of the dawn's rosy light gave Fred a sort of sordid, heart-sickening imitation of life. Nox turned away, feeling guilty, as if she'd just walked in on something very explicit and desperately hoped that George hadn't noticed.

"WEASLEY!"

"What?"

"ON YOUR BROOM AND OFF THE SHIP! AND YOU – GHOST!"

"_Fred._"

"Enough messing around!" Captain Moody snarled at Fred, who was trying in vain to pocket a few of the pixies along the portside wing. "And you mind what I told you back there about those rumours and stay out of the forest. Keep to that house and –"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" the twins chorused with a salute. "Aye, aye, Cap'n!"

But Captain Moody was far from amused. "Stinking landies and deadbeats, throwing their weight about and vomiting all over my ship. Last favour I do for that Bill, mark my word. I s'pose you'll be needing a way to contact me once you're done." He pulled a small conch out of his pocket and tossed it at George, who inspected it curiously. "Just speak into that – clearly, mind. But you won't be boarding this ship again if you come back with a pair of puncture wounds in your necks! On your broom."

All previous determinations and self-made promises of become a working heroine faded into the night as Nox watched George unhook the large broomstick from a sling across his shoulders, straddle it, then beckon her over with a wave of his hand. She suddenly wished she could magically gain a million pounds, thus giving her the perfect excuse to say no while keeping some semblance of dignity, instead of opting out in a very un-heroine-like fashion by releasing whatever was left in her system all over the deck of _the Earnest Vice_.

The grin on Fred's face was positively evil, a bit like the wing-pixies who were still cackling madly behind her back. "Come on, Noxy, flying's not a big deal," he assured her with a very patronising pat the on the head. "The chances of you toppling off are slim to none and even if, by a freak bolt of lightning, you are zapped off the back, you won't feel anything when you hit the ground."

"Course not – you're sure to pass out on the way down," George continued, pulling her onto the back of the broomstick. "Comfortable? Good. Hold on tight then. But don't you be barfing all down my back or I really will boot you off."

"Don't worry," she muttered, digging her fingers into his ribs. "In order to be sick I'd have to open my mouth and I don't want to breathe at all until we're back on land again."

Fred leered. "Ah, so Miss Surly Detective Boss _does_ admit she's got a case of the heightened heebie jeebies."

Nox turned her head away, setting her jaw stubbornly. "_Never._"

"Well if that's the case, you won't mind if I fly a bit faster than usual," said George, and before she could protest there was a nasty lurch as he kicked off the deck into the air, throwing the captain and his crew a hasty salute as the broomstick climbed higher and higher into the sky, the wind rushing through their hair and whipping out their clothes.

In seconds, the airship was just a tiny dot on the dark western horizon. Swallowing thickly, Nox made herself turn around and take a last peek - from a distance _the Earnest Vice_ could have easily been mistaken for a large bird.

Flying wasn't at all as uncomfortable as Nox had expected it to be due to the _Cushioning Charm_, and although she knew next to nothing about flying, George was clearly very adept, handling the broom as if it were only an extension of his arms and legs. Feeling a little bit braver, she glanced to her left where Fred was soaring freely alongside them, having no need for a broomstick or an airship to fly.

"Come on, Georgie, speed up!" he sang mockingly, turning on his back and kicking through the air in a butterfly stroke. "Or is that the best you can do?"

"Your little faith in my as yet unsurpassed flying skills wounds me, dear brother. I'm just giving my passenger here a little tastier," George answered. Nox could hear the grin in his voice and instinctively gripped him tighter. "Oi!" he winced. "Would all rear passengers please like to refrain from crushing the pilot's vital organs? It would be a terrible shame for both parties involved if I lost them mid-flight."

"_Sorry!_" Nox stammered, loosening her grip from organ-smushing back to a more gentle rib-cracking.

Far below, she could see deep shadowy patches between the snowy pines of the Black Forest and for a moment, her fear was overcome by curiosity of what lived under the cover of those shadows.

"This is your co-pilot speaking; over to the left side of your broom you might notice that the sun is starting to rise," said Fred, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, and sure enough the sky was turning a deeper shade of purple and ruby red towards the east. "Better get low, George. You're going to lose your cover in about five minutes."

"Right." George nodded. "Easy as pie. Hold tight, Nox – _not that tight! _Geez, I'd like my lungs to remain nice and un-punctured, if that's alright with you!"

"_Sorry!_"

They zoomed downwards, picking up speed as they rocketed towards the forest like a falling star. Nox could only cling to George for dear life, half expecting to crash headfirst into a tree, but at the last possible moment he pulled up, expertly skimming the tops of the pines so that a spray of snow whooshed up on either side of them, soaking their hair and clothes. Despite the icy cold, it was an exhilarating feeling flying through the snowy trees, swerving around their tips and gaining speed as they raced the dawn towards the house of Lestrade. Eventually, her fingers began to loosen their vice-like grip around George's waist and to her surprise, she heard herself laughing – it was nothing like the laughs she'd had before; her chest felt ready to burst with the feeling.

"There it is; there's the house!" Fred shouted suddenly, pointing towards a twisting, dark tower situated just below the crest of a hill, surrounded by tall pines. "Blow me, it's_ massive!_"

And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, the air trembled furiously with the sound of a low, prolonged howl, its vibrations forcing through the sky and hitting George's broom with the strength of a huge wave, rolling them over and over again until Nox lost all sense of where she was. She heard George give a yell and the sky tumbled overhead as they plummeted into the forest. To her horror, his jacket was beginning to slip from her fingers; the broomstick began to spin out of control and the howl was getting louder. Then all was darkness.

**oOo**

The first thing Nox became aware of was the sound of deep breathing. It took her a while to realise the breathing was not her own, but by the sound of it, of a creature far bigger. Another familiar howl echoed through the trees.

Fred and George were nowhere to be seen. Bruised and dizzy, but otherwise unharmed from the fall, she scrambled hastily to her feet, taking in her new surroundings. Behind, the forest was a curtain of impenetrable darkness and to the east a dusky grey light was beginning to filter through the tops of the pines, stationed like grim soldiers all around her. The tower Fred had pointed to stood slightly off to the north east, but it was difficult to tell exactly which direction that was in the dim light. Nox began to trudge blindly across the marshy forest floor, using the scattered patches of snow and what she could glimpse of the sky as her guide. She called out to the twins, but the only response she received was the prolonged, mournful, howl.

'_Freak bolt of lightning my bony arse,_' Nox thought, though secretly she was a little pleased that she could once and for all say "I told you so" to the twins. _'Banking that I find them in the first place, but George can't have landed that far off… Maybe he's injured and bleeding copiously in the complete opposite direction from where I'm going, in which case I'm a terrible bitch for griping about him and that bolt of lightning might find me yet.'_

She shouted again, now fully convinced that George had broken every bone in his body and was whispering a beautifully heartfelt goodbye to his twin in some distant patch of the forest, without stopping to wonder what else she might attract in the gloomy woodland depths. Still, no reply.

The deep, steady breathing sounded nearer now and close on its heels was the howl, but it no longer frightened her. It sounded so hopeless, so despairing, that it cut her to the heart and without really meaning to, she let her feet move towards it, passing into a part of the forest where the pines grew gnarled and bent out of shape into trees she could not name, but whose enormous roots twisted into high arches before disappearing under the earth, until finally she came to a small, frozen, swamp with a snowy island sitting in the middle.

And there, chained to a stump on the island, was a gigantic wolf.

The beast looked half-starved, each rib sticking out from beneath a grey coat, speckled with snow. Its eyes were closed and its mouth was hanging open, its body completely motionless. Nox couldn't help but feel pity for the poor creature. Tentatively, she took a step forward so that the tip of her laced boots was even with the swamp's slippery bank. There was a jerk of movement. An eye cracked open, then, slowly, the wolf raised its enormous head towards her. For a while, they looked at one another in silence.

Her brain told her to turn tail and run, but something Fred had once told her stuck in her memory. _"Don't run. Never run from a magical creature. It'll only make them chase you faster."_

As if the wolf had read her mind, its mouth drew back into something that resembled a smile. "You can run if you want," he said in a low, growling voice that sounded like water crashing over rocks. "I can't chase you." The wolf's eye turned to the chain that secured it to the tree stump. "In any case, leave and let me die in peace. Come any closer and I will have to tear your throat out."

Nox wanted to do exactly as he advised her, but after a moment's pause she sucked up her courage and said, "I'm looking for my friends. One crashed his broom into the forest close to here."

"How very unfortunate," the wolf growled in disinterest, letting his head sink back onto his paws. "If arrogant men insist on flying the sky where they have no business, then I have no pity for the careless few who fall out of it."

"Actually," she snapped, "it was all your raucous howling that knocked us out of the air in the first place. If anything, it was your carelessness."

He did not answer. She leaned further over the icy swamp, vaguely aware of how ridiculous she must have looked making casual conversation with a monster the size of a minibus.

"Why are you chained here?" she asked tentatively.

"Atonement."

"For what?"

"For my crimes."

"Which crimes?"

The wolf's head jerked up again, his eyes dancing with an eerie silver light. "You ask a lot of questions for a Muggle alone in the woods. Did you never wonder what happened to the cat when his curiosity got the better of him?" He bared his fangs at her; despite his mangy coat and half-starved appearance, the wolf suddenly looked quite capable of bringing down a large elephant.

Despite the fact that her heart was threatening to burst out of her chest, she stood her ground. "Curiosity begets knowledge. If you don't ask, you don't learn, simple as."

"That's a very selfish theory."

"Better than sitting still all your life, or better yet," she pointed to his trappings, "chained to an island in the middle of a swamp."

"Who are you?" asked the wolf, eyeing her curiously.

Nox shrugged. "No one important."

The wolf sneered. "Such a human thing to say." His silver eyes narrowed and he peered closer at her, his shiny black nose sniffing the air. Nox had the disturbing sense that he could see straight through her. "Interesting. You've made a contract." The wolf paused, then added, "_Twice;_ one contract for each brother. I wonder, _what was your price…?_"

Nox wasn't sure if it was a question or not, but she decided it was safer to change the subject altogether. "Can't I help you? The chain doesn't look too heavy. I wouldn't have to cut it. I could probably lift it over that stump easily enough."

There was a sound like rumbling thunder over the mountains and she realised with a start that the wolf was laughing. "A very good idea if you want to get eaten, little human, and that would be a painful process for the both of us, I think. Your bones look so brittle, they'd stick in my gut."

"I doubt I'd even be an appetiser," Nox said honestly. "Look, I can find my friend and he can help you. He's a wizard. And I wouldn't recommend eating him, either. You'd probably explode into a bungalow-sized canary."

But the wolf only snarled and gnashed its teeth. "_No._ If you saved my life, I would owe you a debt, for that is the law of the world, and that, little human, is the last thing I want. Death is much more pleasant a concept. Besides, this chain cannot be removed by you or your friend. It is made of old magic; completely unbreakable. The only one who can remove it is the one who put it on in the first place, and he is dead."

Nox knelt on the bank, thinking hard. She found it impossible to believe there was no other way to free the wolf, but then she knew so little about magic. She put her chin in her cupped hands and gazed at the wolf out of grey eyes. "Did you really deserve this?"

The line of the wolf's mouth pulled into a smile. "Now that is a question to be answered, little human, but not by me. You see, it was Voldemort, the Dark Lord, who put me here and his time for answering questions is well and truly over."

"_Voldemort_…" Nox echoed softly. The forest around them seemed to grow darker at the mention of the name and suddenly she was aware of lights and noises and scufflings in the undergrowth that she had not been aware of before. "But what reason did he have for chaining you here?" she stammered, keeping a wary eye open for danger.

"Reason? Voldemort did not need to trouble himself with a reason for torture. He lived by his own laws while others suffered by them." The ground shook with the wolf's shuddering growl and his silver eyes glimmered furiously. "The Dark Lord wanted my brothers and I to join his war and fight on his side. We refused and in revenge he slaughtered every member of my pack and chained me to this_ Skald-forsaken_ stump. But we wolves will never serve the blood of his kind."

There was a sound of snapping twigs in the not too far off distance and heavy feet plodding through the forest undergrowth, but Nox was too engrossed in the wolf's story to care. He held her fast with his voice like rumbling thunder.

"I would have thought a wolf would be happy to side with someone like…" Nox began, then stopped herself quickly for fear of insulting him. "Er, well, never mind…"

"With someone like Voldemort," the wolf finished and Nox turned red with embarrassment. "Yes, that is our reputation. But Voldemort is a descendant of the wolves' greatest enemy; a witch who my kind hate more than any other, for she was responsible for all the werewolves that live in the world today. Once bred as an army to destroy Godric Gryffindor, they run loose now, feeding on men and spreading their poisonous blood. They are a threat to the natural order of things. You see, a werewolf, once transformed, has the worst of man and beast fighting within it, so it becomes a mere tool of destruction and shifts the balance of nature."

"I don't believe that," Nox said firmly, getting to her feet. "It doesn't matter where you come from or how you came to be. Everyone has the right to live."

The wolf growled and pinned his ears back against his head. "You really are selfish, human. Only someone who has never known war or real hardship can make that sort of claim. But maybe you will learn yet, for even now as I talk to you, the forest is closing in and you are inches from death from one of the very creatures you stand to defend. Answer me this then, little human: who has the more right to live; you or the werewolf that hunts you?"

A cold sweat broke out over her body as she realised in horror that the wolf was right. There in a thicket, mere yards from where she stood at the lip of the frozen swamp, a figure was advancing towards her. It resembled both wolf and man, but nothing like the werewolf she had met in Dartmoor which now seemed like an innocent Labrador puppy in comparison. Its lips, recently stained with fresh blood, were drawn back from its sharp, yellowing teeth, and its cunning, wild eyes were filled with hunger and desire. With an elated howl, it threw itself into a gallop, crashing through the bushes towards her. Nox tried to dive for a branch to defend herself with, but it was only then that she noticed the snakelike tendrils creeping around her ankles. The harder she struggled, the tighter they became, keeping her trapped like a fly in a web waiting for death at the werewolf's claws.

"_INCENDIO!_"

Fred and George came charging into the clearing following a stream of fire which swept across the retreating creepers, then whooshed towards the werewolf who leapt deftly out of the way so that only his mane of matted grey hair was singed by the searing hot flames. In the orange glow, Nox caught a glimpse of the creature and realised in surprise that it was not transformed – the sun had risen and he was_ human._

"It's that bloody Fenrir!" Fred swore close to her shoulder and George gave a sharp nod of his head, looking angrier than Nox had ever seen him.

"You're going to wish you never met us, mate," he growled, and sent another shower of curses charging towards their aggressor, when several things happened at once: first, an enormous bat swooped into the clearing and straight for Fenrir's face, biting and screeching. The werewolf hollered furiously, clawing at the creature with sharp, yellow, talons and tossed it aside, but before he could make a second attack on George or Nox, a huge paw swiped him into the air. His limp body fell in a tangled heap at the bottom of a tree. Evidently, Fenrir had been so engrossed in Nox that he not noticed the enormous wolf chained to the island who had been planning in turn on hunting him.

Whimpering like a whipped dog, Fenrir cast one last look of wild longing at George and Nox, then galloped back into the forest.

"Blimey…" Fred croaked, gawping at the wolf who was now sitting on its haunches and glaring at the crumpled bat which now looked a bit like a punctured bowler hat lying on the forest floor.

"Hello, Sanguini," said the wolf, his mouth pulling into a grim line. "A little early for you, isn't it? I would have thought you'd be exploding into dust about now. Pity."

The bat's leathery black wings collapsed inwards, obscuring its furry, fanged face from view while its body stretched and transformed into the figure of a tall, thin man. His face was pale and gaunt, but his youthful eyes were bright and alert; he had dark hair and a neatly clipped goatee and from his cloak he procured a long, black candle held between two bony fingers. Instead of light, the flame was flickering shadow and a blue-ish twilight, keeping the vampire safe in its strange, ghostly aura.

"Babylon Candles are extraordinarily handy things in sticky situations such as these. But do not call me Sanguini, Garm." He turned to Nox and the twins with a lopsided smile of shy pleasure. "My name is Viktor Lestrade."

**oOo**

_'How many miles to Babylon?  
Three-score miles and ten.  
Can I get there by candle-light?  
Yes, there and back again.  
If your heels are nimble and light,  
You will get there by candle-light.'_

* * *

**A/N:** I had a lot of fun with this chapter. Airships and wolves are love - seriously, this chapter could have easily been fifty pages longer, but I'm trying to reign the word count in a bit XD Comments and critique are always very welcome! Thanks for reading xxx 


	18. Casebook 03: The Cowardly Vampire

**A/N:** I'm so, so sorry for the lack of update! I've been trying to get over severe writer's block, which is hard when you're completely convinced that you're a shit writer. But thank you incredibly much for all the reviews, favs and gift art – I can't tell you what a massive boost they've been!

**IMPORTANT NEWS:** In case you didn't know (and HOW can you call yourself a Weasley Twins fan if you didn't?!), this Friday is **Re-Fredding Day!** The livejournal community (fredrefredded) is already in full swing and the website will launch on Friday. Spread the word! For more info, please check out my profile.

* * *

_The tower's built of stone and spite,  
__Without a sound, without a sight,__  
- The biter bit, the bitter bite  
(It's better to be out at night)_

- Smoke & Mirrors, Neil Gaiman

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook 03: The Cowardly Vampire

**oOo**

The winter morning was bleak and damp, and the Black Forest was threaded with mysterious paths, but Viktor Lestrade knew his way home.

Fred whistled as they broke the last of the trees onto an overgrown icy path that wound around the hill where the vampire's house was perched. Not that Fred would call it a house exactly; more like, every terrifying vampire cliché he had ever come across.

"Doesn't this look family friendly," Fred chuckled. "Dark, gothic, pointy tower… Think he's compensating for something?"

"More than likely," said George.

The twins exchanged a lingering grin.

"Dare you to stay."

"Dare you to leave."

Weasley Manor was a strange house, there was no doubting that. Fred had known he would buy it someday. He had known before he had died that he would live there the rest of his days (the number of days having risen dramatically after his nasty bop-on-the-nog). The walls were dark and the halls were musty and the whole building had a distinctly Slytherin feel to it. By all accounts his attraction to the place made no sense; Fred loved daylight and colour and life, even now that he was the very embodiment of death, and while Weasley Manor was as grim and long faced as Serverus Snape had once been, he loved it. It was his home. For all its draughty nooks and crannies, hawk-eyed portraits and terrible secrets, it had never felt unwelcoming.

This was not the case with Blackwater Hall.

There were no fancy turrets or decorative, hog-faced, gargoyles leering down from high balconies like they did in pictures of Germany's fairytale castles Fred had seen before. The Hall rose up before them, a vast granite tower with no twists or gables, its lightless windows shuttered against the day. Around the snowy courtyard were scattered ruins: here, an old stone archway, strangled with ivy; there, a tomb house, the lock on its iron gates rusted through, never to be unlocked again. Their vampire escort lead them through gardens behind the Hall; overgrown and overrun with gnomes and bowtruckles. Stone statues dotted the grounds or capered on high columns; around the frozen pond, a ring of headless girls danced, long icicles hanging from their stony forearms.

Nox stroked her chin thoughtfully, looking the way she always looked when she was trying to see something Muggles were not meant to see. Fred called it her Sorting Face.

"I don't like them," she muttered, close to his ear. "They look ready to come alive any moment."

Fred would have argued if he didn't suspect that the statue closest to the forest had turned its head to look at him.

"Did that –"

"Better not to ask, young master," the vampire host interrupted him, a thin, shy smile slipping across his face. "Winter magic gives the woods a frightfully nasty nip, so to speak, as I'm sure you are aware by now. It has been my observation that winter has a particularly strange effect on stone and animals with an affiliation to rocks and minerals, such as dwarves and mountain trolls. Hardy weather makes for hardy spirits."

"Like Jack Frost?" Fred asked, an eager note in his voice, and ignored the puzzled look his twin shot him. He had not confided in George about the strange spiky elf he had encountered on the outskirts of _The Burrow_.

The vampire, too, gave him a curious look. "I'm afraid Jack Frost is but a fable."

"So are vampires and wizards," Nox quipped, "and here I find myself in the company of both. Luck of a born mirror-smasher, I have. Er – not that I don't appreciate your hospitality…"

"So long as I don't bite you?" Viktor added with a hearty laugh. Laughter had a strange effect on the vampire's pallid, shadowy face. For a moment, Fred caught a glimpse of what Viktor might have been before, as he stood under the twilit glow of the Babylon Candle.

"Nifty piece of magic you got there all right," said Fred, eyeing the candle curiously. "Blimey, I mean not even Instant Darkness Powder can stop a vamp from turning to dust in the daylight."

All knowledge of the Babylon Candles creation had been lost a good thousand years ago. He wondered how Viktor Lestrade had managed to get his hands on one; moreover, what price had he paid?

"It came with the Hall," the vampire suddenly said, as though he had read Fred's thoughts – and considering what he was, Fred mused, that was very likely. Viktor continued, "You might even call it Fate. This candle has saved my second life more times than I care to count. Indeed, it is a very rare item. One of the rarest. Still," he lowered his voice and moved very close to him, so close that Fred could see the vampire's crescent moon pupils, the irises of his eyes flecked with gold, "a Babylon candle is not quite as rare as you."

Fred stared at him, but before he could speak, George caught Viktor's attention. He was standing close to the garden's boundaries, peering back into the forest.

"See you've got a ring of rowan trees planted round the house." He pointed to the bare trees amidst the tangled undergrowth of yew and hazel. The telltale red berries were a good few months from coming out yet, but rowan trees were always familiar to a witch or wizard's eyes. George shot Viktor an amused look. "So what's a vampire got to fear from the Black Forest? Other than really big dogs, I mean…"

Viktor glanced at him, the twinkle in his eye darkening. "It's my regret that I have a great many things to fear in this country, but those trees do not protect me. Alas! That is neither here nor there, but rather now, which is indeed a moment to celebrate!" He slunk up the short flight of stone steps to the tower's main door – which Nox quietly commented happened to be the _only_ door.

She cocked her head slightly, following the vampire at a cautious pace. "What are we celebrating – Hogmanay aside of course."

The vampire gave her a canny look, turning the large brass handle in the middle of the door. "Why our near-death experiences, of course. If triumph over evil is not a thing to celebrate, then I do not know what is. Come, welcome to my humble kingdom." And he opened the door, waiting politely as they crossed over the threshold into a large, octagonal hall.

The interior of Blackwater Hall was larger by far than it had appeared from the outside, but this came as no surprise to Fred or George. Nox, however, looked completely deflated, as though she'd given up trying to explain the world with rationality and common sense. A broad staircase wound up from the centre of the octagonal hall, curving around the tower walls to disappear into shadows seemingly miles above. Eight doors led off from the main hall and above each one a symbol was engraved into the doorframe: a serpent with an apple in its mouth, pierced by an arrow.

It was all too similar to Weasley Manor.

"Déjà vu?" George muttered.

Fred nodded. "Just a tad."

"Coincidence?" Nox asked.

"Fools and renegades! What a blithering thing to say. There is no such thing as coincidence," Viktor chortled, his heeled boots clacking against the marble stone floor as he came towards them, snuffing the Babylon Candle out as he went. "Isn't that so, Luna, my dear?"

Fred, George and Nox spun around in opposite directions, bumping into each other (or in Fred's case, through his twin and out his detective). After a minute of trying to locate himself again, he poked his head out of George's back and found Luna standing in the doorway of door number Seven, holding in her hand a very mangy old sock. The sinuous firedrake, Zogbob, was wound around her torso, its forked tongue hissing reproachfully.

"Hello everyone," Luna greeted, smiling serenely. "George, did you know your broomstick is broken?"

"Well what do you know! So it is – OW! _Suck-an-elf!_" George yelped painfully as the heel of Nox's boot found his shin. "Er – I mean, hi Luna. Crikey, what are you doing here? How'd you travel?"

"I came by Portkey," Luna replied, showing him the tattered sock. "Normally I try to attend every New Year Ball, but it's very difficult because I'm usually hunting the Frost-bitten Fritters. They like the cold weather you know and have a nasty taste for toes and fingers. But Viktor always invites me here and I really owed him a visit. We share quite a bit in common."

"Yes, as it turns out I am a great follower of Xenophilius Lovegood's studies – particularly that of his fascinating writings on the Crumple-horned Snorkack," Viktor said, with a humble nod of his head at Luna. "Wonderful creature; a truly exceptional evolutionary wonder, even by magical standards."

"He talking about the Crumple-horned whatsit or Luna?" Fred whispered to George, who had to disguise his snort of laughter as a sneeze.

"So, you came by Portkey, Luna?" Nox asked loudly in a hurried attempt to drown out the twins. "Sounds a lot safer than what we just went through. Why didn't we travel by Portkey?"

"Simple," Fred answered, beaming at her. "Because a mysterious mode of transport perched on the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover appeals to our curiosity and addled sense of judgement. And an adventure that's not dangerous isn't worthy of being called an adventure at all, Noxykins."

"Besides, I fancied stretching my wings a bit," George added. "Been ages since I've had the time to do a bit of flying. Not that that'll happen again any time soon." He looked dismally at the splintered bits of wood in his hands.

Viktor smiled sadly. "Ah, that is a loss to be sure. Perhaps a tour might lighten the mood? And afterwards I will show you to your rooms and then we can sit down to some lunch. Most of my guests don't generally arrive until after dark." He took out a key from his waistcoat pocket and walked towards the door numbered six. "Besides, there is something I simply must share with you and I would rather do so without an audience."

"I hope we're not keeping you up," said Nox as they followed the vampire through the door into a long marble hall, lit by several torches fastened to the wall.

Viktor shook his head. "The future follows after the decisions we make, my dear. If we make no decisions, we make no life – or afterlife – for ourselves. It is my choice to be your host… For now, at least, it is still my choice."

It was an odd thing to say, but odder still was the look on the vampire's thin, emaciated face, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Nox shot a questioning look at the twins, who merely shrugged and made a 'crazy' gesture at Viktor's back. Even Luna looked slightly perturbed.

"So, nice digs you've got out here," said Fred. "Maybe we should think about setting up a WWW branch out here, eh, George?"

George grinned. "I can just see it now: Werewolves dumping in your back garden? Throw 'em a stick of U-No-Poo an' stick 'em of what for!"

"Is it true there's been a werewolf movement in the Black Forest over the last year?" Luna asked Viktor just as a fleet of bats scurried over their heads. "I heard a few people in Freudenstadt have been attacked or disappeared. Of course, it is very easy to mistake a werewolf for an Empire Hat-Hog. They have very similar muzzles and can develop a nasty temperament when fed Black Forest Gateau -"

"Naturally, naturally," Viktor hastily interrupted, "but I'm afraid it is very true. I do my best to keep my nose out of such morbid business. Much safer that way."

"I thought vampires and werewolves kept close ties," said George, but before their host could reply, the ground beneath their feet gave a sudden jolt and a sound like distant thunder grew and grew until it became a deafening groan as brick and wood, and stone, ground and twisted together.

At first, Fred assumed it was a Muggle underground passing beneath them – he was so used to them rumbling under his feet in London – but of course there were no underground trains out here. The ground gave another nasty, lurch; Zogbob gave a terrified hiss and uncoiled itself from around Luna's, slithering down the hall and out of sight.

Then everything stopped.

"Right," Viktor began, cheerfully. "Now that's over with, shall we go on?"

Fred and George blinked back their surprise.

"Hold on a sec –"

"You got a dragon down there or something?"

"Or a giant with serious bowel problems?"

Viktor gaped at them. "Hell's Bells, no! Not a very big fan of dragons. Too many teeth. No, I'm afraid that is the price one has to pay living in an old house. I'm sure you have similar problems. Dear William told me quite a bit about your home."

"He did, eh?" Fred snapped. "Remind me to remind our dear brother to keep his big nosy conk outt've our business next time."

They entered another corridor, very narrow, with bare walls as far into the distance as the torchlight would allow them to see. Fred threw his arms behind his head, feeling a bit disappointed after the excitement of the indoor earthquake. In Hogwarts, Weasley Manor and even Rosewood Estate there were paintings, suits of armour, secret passages and the stuffed heads of exotic animals staring glassily down at passers by. In Blackwater Hall there was nothing but stone and torchlight.

Fred poked his head through a shuttered window. Outside, the winter grounds were bleak and the snowy pines were still. Something caught his eye for the briefest moments; a blue-green gas rising in the not too far off distance…

"Tell me, do you know anything of the previous tenants of your house?" Viktor was enquiring.

George shrugged. "Not really. Loads of portraits and stuff lying around – must've belonged to someone I guess, but when we bought it the Ministry said the whole place had been lost from records for a good hundred years. Took us ages to convince them to let us have it."

"And have it you have." Viktor stroked his neatly clipped goatee lazily, then continued, "You have all heard of Beedle the Bard before?"

Everyone nodded, except for Nox who shook her head, puzzled.

"Ah, my dear, but of course you are a Muggle. And yet, ironically enough, you may know exactly who it is I refer to and far more intimately than myself or anyone else in the wizarding world. You see Beedle the Bard was a pseudonym; a nickname given to him by the people and the villages he travelled through on his many adventures."

"Oh, of course," said Luna. "His real name was Sir Hector Oddness. He was an archaeologist in the seventeenth century who quested after the Death Hallows."

"The Resurrection Stone, the Elder Wand and the Invisibility Cloak; three items that when brought together are rumoured to give the person mastery over death. A fine prize for anyone to collect," Viktor said, his strange, tired eyes momentarily lingering on George. "Sir Hector never found them of course, but that's not to say his travels were fruitless. He learned a great many things before he disappeared. He was also the last known tenant of your house."

They had stopped at the end of the corridor where a smooth stone wall marked a dead end, but the vampire only smiled slyly and said, "For every door in the world, there must be a key." He procured a second key from his waistcoat pocket; small and light, about the size of a pinkie finger, and slotted it into a tiny crack in the stone. With a loud groan, the wall began to shift.

Fred's arms dropped from behind his head. The room behind the wall was the landscape of a dream. A vast hall of mirrors stretched into the distance, covering every inch from floor to ceiling, great shelves of them, small and large, short and long. Some swung from chains; others were embedded in wardrobes or ornate jade sculptures. Even the floor was made of glass, Fred discovered to his great amusement as Nox slid past him on her bum.

"Having fun?" he jeered.

"Sod off," came the muffled reply.

George watched her struggle to her feet on the slippery floor, her knobbly knees bumping together. "Graceful as an ox. I pity the poor sod who was forced to brave school dancing lessons with you."

Nox ignored them. "It's like a maze in here with all these reflections. Ten minutes in this room and you'd forget which one's the real you."

"Don't see what you're complaining about," said Fred, drifting towards three large mirrors standing in the centre of the hall. "I quite fancy it myself."

"Course you wouldn't, I'm sure having a roomful of mirrors to gaze at your reflection in would be right up your alley," Nox smirked and fell on her bottom again. "Ow…Really – bloody – _hurts_ when you don't have any padding down there."

Fred cackled. "Serves you right for mocking those without a reflection, Mug-lug!"

"This is a very pretty collection. I've never seen anything quite like it before," said Luna and vaguely began tracing her finger up the length of the mirror. "Mirrors are funny things though, aren't they?"

"Yeah, really smashing," George grinned. He came to stand beside her, then stopped abruptly, staring into the middle glass. The mirror stood on a pair of clawed feet and was easily twice his height. Around the top of the mirror's gold frame there was an inscription:

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_

"Oh!" Luna exclaimed excitedly. "This must be the Mirror of Erised! I've heard quite a bit about it from Harry."

Just then, a large sheet obscured the mirror's surface from view. George and Luna turned to look at the vampire, who smiled guiltily.

"My apologies, but I was given this mirror on the condition that I swear never to let another person gaze up on it. You see, this mirror does what all mirrors do: reflect. Only, it does not reflect a person's image, but rather their heart's greatest wish and that is often a dangerous thing to be shown freely. It is better that we learn these things for ourselves."

"Speak for yourself! Personally I kind've enjoyed seeing my mug as the face of Witch Weekly's Most Handsome Bachelor," George piped in with a laugh.

Fred scoffed, waving him off. "Make that _second_ Most Handsome Bachelor. Afraid you're still a runner up to these fine chiselled looks, Georgie."

"Dunno, Fred. The judges might protest to the worms coming out of your ears."

"The other two mirrors here have the same design," Nox observed, pacing close to the tall silver framed mirror on the left. "What are their names?"

"The one to the right is Efferus," Viktor replied. "I would not recommend looking in that glass either. Imagine a Boggart, only a thousand times worse. Nasty piece of Goblin craftsmanship."

"And on the left?" asked Nox, peering curiously into the mirror in front of her.

"The Mirror Eros. Quite self-explanatory, really. It reflects the person you think most about." The vampire smiled shyly. "Romantically, that is."

"Really…" She slid her hands into her pockets and sighed, turning away from the mirror. "I don't understand. If you believe you can't learn anything from a mirror, then why do you keep them here? If mirrors are only a reflection of what you already know, then they're useless objects."

"Unless you're trying to pop a pimple," Fred added, sagely.

The vampire laughed. "My dear, you are a most charmingly rational-headed person. Collectors, I'm afraid you'll find, are often irrational beings. I myself am one of them. Come, I have one last thing to show you."

As they followed Viktor through another door at end of the hall disguised as a mirror, Fred drifted alongside Nox.

"So what'd you see in the mirror back there?" he asked her, intrigued.

Nox paused a moment, cupping her chin thoughtfully. A flicker of concern crossed her face, then, with a shake of her head, she smiled lightly and said, "Not a thing."

Fred beamed. "Guess you're destined to remain a spinster."

She cocked a brow. "I can think of worse things."

"Worse than plucking George's hairs out the bathplug for the rest of your life?"

Nox faltered in her step. "Touché."

**oOo**

Two figures stood alone at the end of a cul-de-sac, staring at the featureless building before them. The first was a ghost, her long grey hair, which had once been as pitch as night, hung loose and limp around her sharp face, her mouth thin and unsmiling. The second figure was a goblin. His face was old, wicked and leathery as a bat's, and atop his head of greasy, matted hair he wore a crooked cap, stained in blood. His back and shoulders were permanently hunched over – he had become so used to sneaking into people's rooms in the dead of night to slit their throats that his spine had contorted to fit his needs, just as his long, twisting fingers were made for snatching (more often than not small children who wandered too far from their mothers). Red Cap had a terrible taste for children.

The council house was a grey-faced, semi-detached sad looking building surrounded by overturned bins and a few frost-bitten shrubs that had long since been given up on. A Muggle man staggered up the drive way, pulling keys out of his back pocket as he fumbled for the door. It took eleven attempts before he found the key slot and a further five minutes for him to locate the handle. He had not given the ghost or the goblin the slightest bit of notice.

The Muggle man reeked of sweat, liquor and urine. The crooked goblin wrinkled his nose and spat on the ground in disgust, the spittle melting four inches of snow where it landed.

"This is beneath a Goblin."

"You are three feet tall. Nothing is beneath you." Bellatrix sneered hatefully at the house. "Why do they shut themselves up inside little grey boxes? What a waste of life and space. And to think what greater use they could have been put to, but no. Gutless Muggles still live as they die: blind, mindless fools, content with their fragile existence." A thin smile snaked across her face. "If I had my wand, I would put them out of their misery."

"Very gracious of you, ah'm sure, Bella," Red Cap grunted, fumbling around in his leather satchel until his fingers brushed upon a smooth, heavy object wrapped in dead leaves. "Here, but be careful! If you break that, it's your soul on the line – what you 'ave left of it, anyhow."

Bella's eyes gleamed hungrily. Her hand shot towards the little package, but to her surprise her silver fingers simply passed through it, as though it were not there at all. She tried again and again, growing angrier with each failed attempt, but her fingers could not find purchase on the object sitting in the palm of the crooked goblin's hand.

"What are you doing!? Is this some kind of deceitful goblin trick, you nasty little Halfling?!" Her eyes narrowed and she spat a curse. "Give me that thing NOW!"

"It's not my fault you can't pick it up. If you 'aven't even learned how to pull a simple trick like that by now, why'd you even bother sticking around after death?"

"I am NOT – DEAD!" Bellatrix howled, lashing out at the goblin's leathery face.

Blood spattered the ground.

Red Cap lifted a hand to his face. There was a long deep cut across his cheek. He smiled, licking his lips. "Next time you'll want to focus that temper on something useful, like picking this up. But it won't do tonight. Ah'll have to come in with you."

The inside of the house was cramped and stuffy. Newspapers and fag ends littered the narrow passageway up the stairs and the smell of sweat and beer hung heavily in the air. They stopped at last outside a little door, plain and unmarked. Red Cap's grasping fingers coiled around the handle, opened the door and slid inside, softly as a shadow, Bellatrix's ghost drifting behind him.

It was a child's room, though you would not guess it at a first glance. There were no posters on the walls or toys on any of the dusty, bare shelves. A small girl slept without a sound in a bed close to the window, her feet sticking out the bottom.

"No older than nine." The crooked goblin licked his lips again, his small gold eyes gleaming in the dark. "Her heart will be just ripe."

"Don't cut it out yet," Bellatrix snapped, "she's got something very important to me inside that heart. Important to us _both_ or had you forgotten, Halfling?"

"I never forget that which belongs to me, Bella. I can wait. Besides, a heart in turmoil tastes so much sweeter than one that's content." He unwrapped the object from the dead leaves and held it out for Bella to see. It was a small gold egg, roughly the size of a chicken's, and glowing faintly in the gloom. Red Cap smiled. "Tengu's egg. Very rare."

He slunk towards the girl's bedside and very gently lifted her pillow and placed the egg beneath it. Then he brushed his fingers against her dark hair and whispered in her ear a spell unlike one Bellatrix had ever heard before: "Here, here child, let golden slumbers kiss your eyes, let lies awake you when you rise. Sleep pretty wanton, do not cry, sing yourself a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby. A heart is heavy – therefore sleep you – when one is fair – and I must keep you. Sleep pretty wanton, do not cry and I will spell you a lullaby; Rock them, rock them, lullaby."

**oOo**

The vampire had insisted upon carrying out the remaining tour of Blackwater Hall via mode of transport, but sailing through the twisting, winding corridors inside a little gondola was not exactly what Nox had had in mind. She peered over the edge. The glassy water they sailed across was quite shallow, a mere three metres at its deepest point. A greenish glow lit the bed beneath them, a huge mosaic of moving pictures.

_"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the gothic tower!"_

Viktor Lestrade stood at the bow, poling the little gondola through the water and lazily humming something to the tune of 'that's amore', in stark contrast to Luna and the twins' nursery rhyming, their high-pitched, squeaky voices echoing off the cavernous ceiling above them.

_"If you see Vermicious K-nid, don't forget to scream!"_

Nox blinked. "A what?"

"Blimey, there's one there!" George cried, sending a torrent of water down on the detective's head when she jumped around.

Fred snorted. "Ah, Muggle-drowning – a top notch sport, what-what! Noxy, your gullibility never ceases to amuse."

"Glad to be of service," she muttered dryly, pushing her flopping wet fringe out of her eyes.

"Serves you right for kicking me in the shin earlier," said George, sending a gust of warm wind towards her with a flick of his wand. "There, clean as a whistle, dry as a thistle. Here, have a look down there – what do you make of that, ay?"

Everyone peered over the side of the little gondola into the water's eerily glowing depths. The mosaic tiles beneath them were constantly shifting and changing like sand: one moment they told the story of a brave pig-boy who out-witted the Mountain King in order to free his village, but who lost his right eye in the process. Next it showed the story of Rumplestiltskin, the crooked elf who possessed crooked minds and stole the hearts of children for his crooked dinner. The tiles shifted again. Now a battle raged beneath them, high amongst snow-capped hills and icy crags. Giants, wizards, werewolves, witches – all fought and struggled and fell, staining the white snow red with blood. At the forefront there rode a wild looking man, clad in red and gold and sitting astride an enormous boar. To his rear, a beautiful woman stood on the crest of a hill, firing arrows against the lightning, and at her shoulder there flitted a little yellow butterfly. A blinding blizzard rose; the mosaic tiles turned white and the story changed once more to the tale of Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump.

Viktor smiled, leaning on his pole. "Pretty little oddities, don't you think? They never tire of telling tales. One day I wager they'll tell your tale, too."

George threw him a suspicious look. "And what tale would that be, then?"

But the vampire ignored him. "So tell me, what did you think of the last story? You may have recognised a few faces in there."

"I did," said Luna, brightly. "That was Godric Gryffindor, Helena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff."

"Oh yeah? How'd you tell that then, Lu?" Fred asked.

"Oh, it's very simple. The image of Godric Gryffindor riding a bore into battle is really quite iconic," she explained, ignoring the vague look the twins shot her, "and then, of course, I noticed Helena Ravenclaw's diadem – it's really quite a remarkable piece of ingenuity; Daddy's still struggling with his replication – and then finally there was Helga Hufflepuff. Her Animagus was a yellow butterfly, you know."

"Wonderful observation, Luna my dear. You are a credit to your Hogwarts house. Yes, indeed, that was one of the greatest, or rather, most terrible battles in all of Hogwarts history. The school would not see another war quite like it for a thousand years, one which I'm saddened to say, poor Fred lost his life in."

Nox started in her seat.

"Took my slice of glory before I went down the shoot, mind," said Fred, grinning. "Can't die fairer than that, I say."

Though Nox had suspected this for a while now, it was still unsettling to hear it confirmed. She remembered how happy and intense Fred had looked on Christmas Eve when he had revealed the Hogwarts castle sitting on the floor of _the Burrow's_ living room. It was clear how much he loved the place. That he had died there, too, just seemed so… Unfair? Ironic? His death alone was that, never mind the place in which it had happened.

A thought suddenly occurred to her and she asked, "Did the war have something to do with Voldemort?"

Above their heads they could hear the tower groan and trembled again, as if in answer to the Dark Lord's name.

Fred's grin fell from his face and George nodded, slowly. "Yeah, he had everything to do with it. Fifty of us were killed in the last battle and that's not counting the ones who disappeared beforehand. Believe me when I tell you it's not something you want to know more about. Not the kind of thing you'd tell your kids about before bedtime, if you know what I mean. Even though he's dead, Voldemort's name still holds a lot of sway."

Everyone went quiet. Even Viktor Lestrade seemed uncomfortable with the subject matter at hand. Nox sorely wished she had kept her big curious trap shut. The old forest wolf's words stuck in her mind like grit: _"Voldemort did not trouble himself with a reason for torture. He lived by his own laws while others suffered by them…"_

Suddenly, Fred stood up and clapped his hands, beaming. "Right, so fancy changing the subject before we all hang ourselves in bleedin' misery? Frankly dying again isn't on my list of New Year celebrations, so have up it! Where we going, Vik?"

"I'm very glad you asked," Viktor laughed, jamming the pole deeper into the water as they rounded another corner along the channel, where they came upon an enormous waterfall, thundering down from a terrifying height. The vampire watched the look of surprise upon their faces, darkly amused. Then he began, "Occasionally you will find that up is down and, contrariwise, down is up, but in this particular occasion logic and the laws of physics must govern so we shall head up to go up. I hope that's quite alright with everyone?"

Nox goggled.

"There's a nice piece of wizard logic for you to choke on, Noxy," Fred jeered close to her ear.

As they neared the waterfall, the fall of the water became deafening, plummeting down in torrents into a wide black pool. The water here was too deep to see the storytelling tiles beneath them. They sailed closer and closer until the white spray soaked their hair and clothes, but alarmingly, Viktor did not appear to be in a great hurry to turn the little gondola off its path.

"Are we going around it?" asked Nox, imagining a secret stairway lurking somewhere behind the curtain of water.

Luna shook her head serenely and pointed her finger towards the ceiling. "I imagine we're going _up_."

Nox sagged with visible relief, but her horror quickly returned as the little gondola gave a hard jolt, throwing her onto her back. "I thought we were going up!"

"We _are_ going up," Fred said happily, as though sailing up a waterfall was a perfectly ordinary everyday occurrence. "Course, if you'd rather not stay in the boat, we could toss you." He winked at her stricken face. "What, no snappy comeback? Blimey, you really do have a big fear of heights, don't you?"

"No," she lied, clinging to the deck of the boat like a cat faced with a bath full of water, as Viktor steered the gondola up the waterfall.

"ERRONEOUS."

George looked at Luna, puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

Luna put her hand to her face, deep in thought then said, very seriously, "Hornswoggle."

"You what?"

"Nipperkin."

"Has she gone barmy? Finally lost the last of her marbles?" Fred asked, caught between amusement and confusion, but to his surprise George only grinned broadly and said, "Blunderguff."

Luna giggled. "Noodle."

"Canoodle."

"Tittle."

"Tattle."

"Flibbertigibbet!"

"Hobbledehoy!"

"Floccinaucinihilipilification!" Everyone turned to stare at Fred, wide-eyed and wondering. "Oh, it's a word alright. Floccinaucinihilipilification: the act of judging something as worthless." He crossed his arms behind his head, leaning casually back. "That deserves a meddle, that does. Flummox."

"Podunk."

Nox shook her head, trying to chase off the smile itching on her lips. "Does any of this have a purpose?"

To her surprise, Luna reached over and squeezed her hand. "It appears we've reached the top."

"We have?" Nox looked around in surprise.

The gondola had indeed reached the top of the waterfall and Viktor was stepping onto a marble bank and securing the boat to a tall signpost sprouting several different arrows with conflicting directions: This Way - That Way - Wrong Way - Round Way - Square Way…

"If you take the Round Way round to the Wrong Way, then I'm sure you'll find the right way to your rooms," Viktor said once they had shuffled out of the gondola and onto the bank. "They have been prepared for your stay here. I will begin lunch and meet you downstairs in an hour so." With a short bow, he untied the boat again and poled away down an adjoining water channel.

**oOo**

The rooms were cosy and warm, with rich, gold Victorian furnishings and lavish four poster beds. George dumped his pack on his bed, grumbling gloomily at the splintered remains of his Firebolt. Across the hall, Luna was jumping from one bed to the other and swinging the pillows in great circles around her head.

"Bed-bugs," she breathlessly explained to Nox between leaps. "Best way to get rid of them is to jump them out. I think I have them all now."

"Cheers, Luna." Nox leaned against the doorframe, smiling. Bed-bugs or not, you could never get irritated with Luna – she was far too sincere. A little too sincere maybe, but nevertheless, Nox found it an appealing aspect of her personality. Too often in her job, she found herself dealing with false, shrewd, cunning personalities. Spending time with Luna Lovegood – who always wore her heart on her sleeve – felt a bit like a release.

Fred poked his head quite literally through the door into their room. "Knock, knock! You ladies alright in here? Thought I'd best keep an eye on you, you know, this being a vampire sex pad and everything. Frankly I'm surprised you managed to keep your knickers on this long."

Nox gave him a crooked smile. "Eloquent as always."

Fred tutted and wagged his finger at her. "Actually, you're line was, 'Fred, you're the most thoughtful, handsome and charming ghost this side of the River Styx! You deserve a kiss for all your charity.'"

"You don't have lips to kiss," she flatly pointed out. "And did you really use lines like that when you were alive?"

Fred's silvery form slid fully through the door, crossing his arms over his chest with a mocking grin on his impish face. "Your Highness-ness, I think you'd find if you tallied up the number of hearts I've broken to the number of men in your life, romantic or otherwise, you'd be laughing on the other side of that Mugglesome face."

"Sticking your hand up some girl's skirt for two weeks then unceremoniously dumping her doesn't count. Cad."

"Doormat," he countered dryly, pointing at her chest. "Anyway, must be off! Cherish these magical moments between us though I do, Noxy, I have matters of the utmost importance to attend to. Pillow fights don't win themselves, you know."

Nox rolled her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Well, so long as it's of the utmost importance…" She paused, then added softly, "Shenanigans."

"Eh – What?"

She cleared her throat, embarrassedly. "Your little distraction back there at the waterfall. I just wanted to say… shenanigans. You know. My word." She knew it was her way of saying thank you without actually saying it and she knew he knew that, too.

Fred's smile softened a bit. "It would be that. You might not pull 'em, but you're attracted to them well enough. So how about that kiss?"

"Sod off."

Fred grinned in response, puckering his lips as if he were blowing her a kiss, then disappeared through the door again, hollering behind him, "You're my angel of sweetness, flatty!"

"Bastard."

"You two are very good friends," Luna smiled. She had left her de-Bed-bugging and was now leaning by the windowsill, peering out of the tall windows across the Black Forest. Nox joined her.

"I wouldn't say that. We argue all the time."

"Yes, I have noticed that Fred can be a bit unkind sometimes; a lot more so than George. But it seems to me that you enjoy bickering," said Luna, displaying her usual knack for brutal honesty. "But I don't think Fred says and does things out of spitefulness. He used to pull on my hair a lot when I was little and call me Loony Loo, but I knew he never disliked me. I always liked Fred and George at school. They always said hello to me in the corridors. Sometimes I'd even pretend we were friends."

Nox did not have the heart to tell Luna that the twins still referred to her as Loony Loo. "I thought you were always friends. You seem to know them well enough." She paused. "Who did you have at school, Luna?"

"Oh, no one really. Hogwarts was really wonderful, but sometimes I think I would have liked it more if I had had more people to share it with. There was Ginny, of course. And Neville and Harry were very good to me, too. But I would have very much liked a best friend. I've never had one of those before."

"Not even Rolf?"

Luna glanced upwards thoughtfully, twiddling a strand of long hair around the tip of her wand. Finally, she said, "He's very energetic. And he loves his work a lot, which is nice. I'm very fo-"

"Fond of him, yeah you mentioned." Nox bit her lip before she said anything else. Getting involved in somebody else's love life, especially when she was about as clued up on romance as an ogre, had to be a very bad idea indeed. Still, she could not help feeling guilty.

They looked out the window at the snowy pines in silence. Nox's head felt muzzy, her eyes tired. Distantly, she heard Jackdaws carking amongst the bare winter branches. As her eyelids began to droop, a blood curdling scream stung the flesh on the back of her neck and a flash of bright gold caught the corner of her eye. It had not come from far away. She thought she could pinpoint it to a sunken, shadowy area of the forest in the near distance, beneath a rocky overhang.

"I thought I heard someone scream," she muttered.

"You did," Luna replied, quietly.

"It came from over there, beneath that outcropping… Aren't those Barrows?" Nox gave an involuntary shiver even as she said it. She had seen many Barrows in the Highlands of Scotland before; her father had told her they were old tombs, guarded by faeries and ancient charms. They had always given her a bad feeling.

Luna, however, was perfectly at ease. "Yes, that's right. Only those are not normal Barrows. They're Bog Barrows. Full of Inferi, I should think. What did you think of Viktor, Nox?"

"Er – he was nice, as far as I could tell. More polite than I expected a vampire to be. Why do you ask?" Nox stopped at the look on her face. "Luna, why did you really come here? You told me you were going to be busy over winter categorising gnomes or Boggles or something."

"Do you remember how I told you about VAMP at Christmas?"

"Yes."

"It was disbanded two weeks ago. Viktor told me so in his invitation. He said that he could not be concerned with it any longer, that it was too risky. And then there was a comment he made earlier about keeping his nose out of other people's dangerous business." Luna's large, misty eyes fixed Nox with a very serious stare. "Don't you think he's quite cowardly?"

Nox faltered. "Erm, I suppose so." While she had had a similar impression of Viktor Lestrade, she could never quite get used to Luna's bluntness.

Below, the sound of hooves hitting stone sounded the arrival of the first guest. A man with curling gold hair was coming up the track towards the Blackwater Hall on a pale horse. He looked up and waved at them, brightly. Luna waved back.

"I think something has happened to Viktor," she continued softly, her misty, vague eyes never leaving the man on the horse. "At first I thought it might be Wrackspurts, but now I think it might have something to do with what happened to Flaversham that time in Wales. That was why I asked Bill and Fleur to swap places with you."

"It was you?!" Nox spluttered, but before she could say anything else, a huge crash from the room across the hall sounded a twin-related disaster.

_"PILLOW FIGHT!"_

They peered around the guestroom door across the hallway where Fred and George were staying, only the Fred in question was nowhere to be seen. In the centre of the room, two pillows were circling each other like a pair of cockerels in an underground cockfight.

Luna cooed and clapped her hands in delight.

"Fred…" Nox blinked, disbelievingly. "…Are you a pillow?"

The pillow closest to the wall turned and waved its left hand corner at her, jovially. "Indeed I am. Very observant. I can't believe I never thought of this before – OI! GEORGE, CHEAP SHOT!"

"Gotta stay in the game, Fredders," George sang mockingly, flicking his wand so that his pillow did a triple flip in the air, then dived towards its opponent. "I've got twenty Galleons riding on this, remember."

"Oh, really?" Luna cooed, slipping cross-legged onto the floor around the invisible fight-ring. "I think I will also put a money bet down. Fifty Galleons on George to win."

"_Fifty?" _George spluttered, his concentration on the game momentarily lapsing, earning him a pillow to the face.

"Gotta stay in the game, Georgie," Fred laughed, cruelly. "Nox! Put down a wager on me, too."

"No chance – you're losing."

"Come on, Mug-lug! I'll half your rent for a month."

"Alright… Fine." She grinned. "Twenty-pee on Fred to win. But look, you're jabbing too much with your left. Try some defence!"

Fred guffawed, spitting feathers at her. "No rear passenger fighting, cheers!"

The two pillows circled around each other a couple more times before lunging forwards into battle, sending clouds of feathers into the air. Everyone was so busy rallying on the fight that they did not hear the door crash open at first or notice the young man storm into the room, his pale, pointed face contorted with rage.

"_Excuse me!_" he said loudly, holding up a sign that read 'Do Not Disturb', in very big and important swirly letters. "Did you NOT read the sign on my door or are you completely deaf?"

"I think you mean _blind_, Malfos Toe-rag-atus," George replied, coolly. "Oi, Fred! You bloody cheat! I was distracted! Ger'off my pillow!"

"_Weasley?!_" the young man spluttered, his eyes narrowing in disbelief as he backed up towards the door. "And a Lovegood, too? This ball gets more and more common each year. Next I expect it'll be Hagrid who gets an invitation."

The Fred-pillow grumbled from somewhere beneath the pile of feathers on the floor. "Merlin's conks, tell me that's not the Malfoy's brat?"

The young man ignored him, his narrow eyes swivelling towards Nox, taking in her muddy clothes and dishevelled hair with a thoroughly critical eye. "And I suppose you're a dirty little Muggle or somethi-" but he could not finish his sentence for the pillow stuffing his mouth, shortly followed by the slamming of the door in his face.

The Fred-pillow clapped its corners together, as though dusting his hands off, carelessly. "Right, now that the vermin's got rid of, how's about a round two before lunch?"

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N: **Ahhh Malfoy. I never was a big fan of his, but he'll be fun to torture a bit in this casebook (the ferret). Man, I really hope this chapter wasn't a complete feck-up. I'd love to hear what you honestly think of it! I really struggled with the writing, because there was a lot of overall-plot info in there, like the Founders tale – that's going to be expanded on. And of course there's Blackwater Hall and its link to Weasley Manor.

Oh, if anyone's interested, I've written a Founders Timeline, but I don't think I can put it up on FanfictionNet, so if you want to see it head over to my Deviantart account. The link is: **www . Weasley-detectives . deviantart . com** (without the spaces). I've uploaded more FredxNox art and there are some seriously fantastic gift arts plus another commission, too!

**REMEMBER RE-FREDDING DAY ON FRIDAY (MAY9th)**


	19. Casebook 03: The Bog Barrows

**A/N:** Wow, I know I sound like a flipping broken record, but really, everyone has been _so, so _kind with reviewing and gift art and everything. The very lovely **Reina-Matsuo** has been translating the story into French _and_ drawn a TVPD Tarot card set! So excited! You can see her tarot cards over on deviantart (her username there is **Dageiko**).

I was thinking about that sod who plagiarised Twin Vice a while back. The only reason I found it was because sofenrirmeone on another forum advised me to do regular checks, so I thought I'd better do the same for fellow ficcers here. Believe me, it's not nice finding something you've worked your butt off on in the hands of a douche like that (although it was pretty funny… she turned Nox into a Japanese exchange student called Wildfire who was suffering from amnesia XD).

**Note:** Canon spoilers ahead for Draco's future wife (as revealed by JK in some interview or another).

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook 03: The Bog Barrows

**oOo**

London was an old city. The closer you got to the Thames, the older it became. Oldness, as most wizards will tell you, is not just the ticking of time or the passing of one season into another. It is a tangible force, thick as bread pudding and difficult to remove, like a millennia's worth of sticky dust on the windowsill. But it does fade.

The feeling wasn't so strong in Diagon Alley any more and it felt even weaker in other parts of the city; Piccadilly Circus, Covenant Gardens, Islington, Leicester. Oh, it was there, but you had to search to find it.

Percy Weasley currently sat in a pocket of one of the last old places in London. _The Glass Eye Inn_ was close to the river - a little too close for most people's liking. The Inn was nestled deep underground in a nook by the old catacombs (cheaper rates, argued the proprietor). The crumbling wall that kept the surging waters of the Thames at bay sprouted leaks on a daily basis. As he sipped his drink, something lurid, green and smoking with the obligatory nameless object floating on top (that he hoped to Merlin was an olive), Percy wondered how in heavens the proprietor of the establishment (Cumblings Boswell; part-time ogre, full time drunk), managed to keep his business above water, figuratively and literally speaking.

It wasn't that Percy liked _The Glass Eye_. It was filthy and damp, and if you thought the smell of crusty troll feet on a hot summer's day was bad, you would not last a second near the catacombs. But he went there because no one took notice. No one said, in the usual hushed whispers, "Look, there's the poor bugger who was with Fred when he died. Pity, heard he's nothing like what his brother was."

Here, thirty feet below the city, he might as well have been a cluster of rat droppings collecting dust in the corner, which was funnily enough how he felt.

There were a group of pirates near the fireplace. Percy could tell they were pirates by the barnacles. One looked disturbingly like Mad-Eye Moody. Five open bottles lay between them, four of them empty.

Percy wrinkled his nose in distaste and returned to sipping his drink. He was off-duty. Years ago he might have turned them in. Instead, he listened.

"Ah heard he's more hated in the vamp community than them whatcha' ma-call-its is, them _loisters_," said a small bronze, wiry man with a ring through his nose and hair so greasy it looked like he'd dipped his head in a vat of lard.

"That's lawyers, yeh dunderheaded dolt," said the man resembling the late Mad-Eye, clouting the younger man over the head (it sounded quite empty).

"Right, Cap'n. Sorry Cap'n."

"They've got it in for 'em tonight, those poor sods," the Captain mused, clasping the bottle on the table between the claws of a grotesque lobster hand, and taking a hefty swig of its toxic contents. "Tried to tell Bill that forest ain't been right these days. You're safer in Azkaban than in that forest when the wolves are runnin'. I bleedin' well told him so and what does he do? Sends his _brothers_ off to that cursed hole instead."

"Ah thought yeh liked Bill, Cap'n?"

The Captain paused, looking grim. "I did."

The wiry man leaned forward, grinning. "Saved our neck plenty o' times back in Malta, he did. An' remember that time when we was caught in them pyramids? Bloody mental the way he dealt with them curses. Ah never seen a wizard move like it. Like a freaky firecracker, he was!"

"Shut it, Flapper."

Percy frowned. So they were talking about his brother. Typical of Bill, saving pirates and letting them get away. He never had understood his brother's loose morals.

"He's a good lad, I'll grant him that," the Captain continued, "but Bill's got wolf's blood of the wrong kind in his veins now and you mark my word – that sort of thing changes a man. Werewolf's a part of his soul now, an' don't you forget it."

There was a sound like a volcano exploding as a thickset muscular man, with dark skin and a squirrel perched on his shoulder, cleared his throat. "There's rumours flying around all over the place about the Black Forest these days – things that'll keep you up at night. You wouldn't catch me in that vampire's tower for all the gold in this world and the next."

Percy did not want to know what kept a man like that awake (though, the squirrel did dampen his image somewhat).

The Captain brought out a large conch from his inside coat pocket and set it on the table. "Fred and George, eh. Twins, aren't they?"

Flapper nodded. "Yeah - _was_ twins before the war caught up to them anyway. Ah went to school with 'em."

The large mountain of a man eyed him coolly. "_You_ went to school?"

"Aye, _I_ went t' school!" Flapper retorted defensively, then coughed into his hand. "Fer a year or two, anyhow. Even threw an egg at Harry Potter! Missed an' hit ma' Potions teacher. S'why ah started drinkin'."

Percy didn't stick around to hear any more. He downed the contents of his drink, (something he regretted later when he reached the surface and vomited into the nearest dustbin), snatched up his cloak and began striding towards the exit, colliding briefly with a tall spidery man, who was smoking a cigarette, on his way out the door.

**oOo**

Outside, it was snowing. Frost patterns curled across the window panes. Of course, it never occurred to anyone but Fred that _someone_ might be making them.

They were almost used to Blackwater Hall's frequent groans and grumblings by the time the vampire, Viktor Lestrade, called them down for some light lunch. The dining room was situated in a room off the octagonal entrance hall and upon entering, Nox had the feeling they were stepping into a Norse Saga. The walls were carved from rough hewn stone and in the centre of the room a deep pit had been dug where a fire now crackled and sparked. Great slabs of pork and rinds of bacon were strung on a spit and sizzling above flames.

There was a sound like distant drums beating, though Nox couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from. It seemed to swell from the very walls. It was old music and not in the way that Celestina Warbeck was old, but rather more in the way that mountains and trees and barrows were old. As Nox listened, images of the great battle they had seen from the boat trickled into her head like rainwater.

The fire snapped.

Fred was licking his chops miserably.

"Blimey," he laughed very bitterly, floating over to a chair beside the vampire host, "I'd go back in time and do myself in for just one _bite_ of a bacon sarnie. Can't beat a sarnie. Dog's bollocks, they are."

"Oh, are they really?" said Luna, looking quite intrigued by this revelation. "I never knew that. I always thought bacon came from the Flobberworm. That's how Daddy used to make them."

"Eating worms, Lovegood?" Draco Malfoy entered the dining room briskly, sitting down in a seat furthest away from Fred. "No wonder you've taken up company with Weasleys," he muttered.

"Draco, your hair thinning a bit?" George enquired sweetly, leaning over the younger man's chair like a vulture.

Draco almost fell out of his seat when he saw the freckled face peering down at him, scrutinising every strand of pale blonde hair right down to the follicle. Glowering, he righted himself in his seat, clearing his throat and smoothing a few strands of pale hair across his forehead a tad self-consciously.

"I don't know what you're on about, Weasley. It's _meant_ to look like this."

"Now, now," George clapped a hand over Draco's shoulder, with a little more force than would suggest it being a friendly gesture. "No shame in losing your hair, Malfoy."

"Yeah, you know what they say about bald men, don't you?" Fred added with an honest smile.

"What's that then?" Draco demanded, lifting his chin brazenly.

"They say, 'Look at that tosser, he's got no hair', then they point and laugh." Fred sneered.

Draco's pale pointed face contorted with rage. He stood up in a fury, slamming his hands down on the table.

"I'm not staying here a minute longer with that lot! I'd rather eat swill with swine than dine with two Weasleys and that stupid girl, which is more or less the same thing anyhow."

"Now, my dear Draco," Viktor drawled, smiling languidly, "we are all of us guests here and nothing comes of spreading rumours but screams and bad dreams. Luna is a very fine young lady. One of the finest, if she will permit to say so."

Luna beamed. "Oh, I do."

Draco suddenly looked torn between wanting to impress his host and wanting desperately to escape the dangerous look on the twins' faces. He had not forgotten the beating George had given him. His jaw still made a rather disconcerting _clicking_ noise if he opened it too wide.

Finally, grudgingly, he sat back down at the table, glowering at Luna (for at least she couldn't fight back) and mumbled, "I've met flesh eating slugs who make more civilised conversation than _she_ does."

"That's not a very nice thing to say," Luna admonished coldly. "You might as well put caterpillars in my hair."

"You see! She's a lunatic," Draco grunted. "Who talks like that? You could count her brain cells on the one hand."

"Well that's fine with me," Nox snapped, tucking her napkin into her shirt. "I'd rather dine with a lunatic than a pompous git any day. Besides, you might malt into my soup."

Draco glowered. "Push off. Take a look at your own reflection before you start harping on about mine. At least I can _afford_ a hairstyle."

"I didn't know 'bald' was sheik now," Fred remarked coolly. "I guess you must miss these significant changes in fashion when you're dead."

George propped his elbows up on the table, lacing his fingers together. "You know, Malfoy, I don't think we've really spent quality time together since that little incident after Quidditch a few years back. You remember, right?" He fixed Draco with a smile that very clearly stated, 'keep your trap shut or I'll plant my foot in your face'.

"Well, well, sounds like everyone's getting along nicely in here – festive spirits and everything!" a new voice said cheerfully.

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer, who raised a casual hand by way of greeting and slid into a seat beside Draco, propping his feet up on the table.

"Guests arriving early, Vik?" asked Fred.

The vampire turned a lazy eye towards him. "Hmm? Ah. Yes. This is a friend of mine. He lives here occasionally." Viktor took a delicate sip from his goblet of rat's blood.

"Says that though it were nothing, but we've been friends since before he was bit!" the man laughed. "Name's Minos – Minos Divine."

Fred and George both snorted into their hands in a futile attempt to cover their laughing, but the man only grinned all the wider, tilting his chair back onto two legs and thrusting one arm over the back of Draco's chair.

Draco scowled.

"Ah, laugh it up boys! Most people do. Worst names out there mind, could 'ave been a _Malfoy._" Minos grinned, slapping Draco's shoulder so hard that the younger man's face ended up nose deep in soup. "Don't frown so much boy, it'll scare away the girls! You boys must be Bill's brothers, right? What a catch his wife is," Minos continued, without pausing to take a breath. "Heard all about you – tearing Diagon Alley up a storm with that business of yours these past few years, or so _The Prophet_ tells me."

"Yeah, I reckon we make a nice Knut or two," Fred said with exaggerated modesty.

"Ah but it's been a terrible struggle," George sighed, a hand pressed to his forehead. "We like to think of ourselves as humble martyrs in the shark infested waters of wizarding trade."

"Tough work, but someone's gotta keep the ickle kiddies happy. I mean imagine school without a bit of mayhem? Think I'd hang myself if I had a neck."

Minos beamed. "Wise words, gentlemen. Vik! How's about a bit of vino over here? It's New Year! In with the old and all that – ooh, very old. Vintage 1880. This is the proper stuff, gentlemen." He grabbed a goblet and drained its contents in one swig, a chain of gold rings around his neck clinking against the glass.

Viktor remained silent as they chatted throughout lunch.

Nox caught the look of concern on Luna's face. She couldn't blame the girl for travelling so far now. As the day had worn on, the vampire had become more and more disinterested with everything around him. She had to admit he was strange, even for a man who drank blood for a living.

Minos Divine on the other hand – he was a whole other kettle of fish. He had a face that was young and open and friendly. Nox, by default, did not trust this sort of face at all. It was the sort of face Fred and George might have charmed her with while handing over a package that had "ACME Inc. Danger: Explosives" written in big red letters on the side. He might have been handsome, but Nox was not much of a judge of that sort of thing. He was tall, well dressed and his curly gold hair framed his face in a way that reminded her of one of those irritatingly charming rogues in a Jane Austen TV special.

A half-hour later, Nox found she could not hold her tongue any longer. She turned to the vampire.

"I heard your involvement with V.A.M.P. ended." It was blunt, but she wasn't one for subtleties. "It sounded like a worthwhile establishment. What made you leave? If you don't mind me asking…"

"Sticking your nose into other people's affairs?" said Fred, chuckling. "There's a change for the books. You know, compared to you the plagues must have been a joy."

Nox turned away from him. "You know that bacon was _delicious._"

George cringed. "Ouch…"

"It's fine, my dear, I was expecting your question long before now and you certainly won't be the last person to ask it tonight," said Viktor, smiling his shy lopsided smile, so uncharacteristic of his kind. "But the answer is nothing grand. Quite shameful really. I am afraid I have lost my nerve. The threat of having your heart staked by your own kind tends to change ones priorities somewhat. And also…" At this point Viktor's eyes slid towards the window. There was only one window in the Dining Hall that overlooked the frozen pond surrounded by the stone dancing girls.

Nox blinked. The ring of rowan trees that grew around the tower seemed closer than before.

The tower walls rumbled again.

"It would be a terrible shame if you were killed," Luna told Viktor truthfully. "I should be very sorry. I know I shouldn't like it to happen to me."

"_Feh!_" Draco grunted.

Minos suddenly stood up and clapped his hands together. "Luna, have you seen the grounds yet? Amazing this time of year. Come on and I'll show you."

"Oh, yes please! I don't like being indoors too long. It makes me feel heavy, like I've drank too much water. Ready to burst, you know? And I would love to see the outside of the tower. I read in _the Quibbler_ once that Gudrun built this tower, which is why there are so many tunnels and passageways like a big honeycomb. It made it impossible for her prisoners to escape."

"Why's that?" asked Fred.

Luna blinked her impossibly large eyes at him, as though the answer was obvious. "Well it's very hard to escape when you're lost, isn't it? If you're all turned around like your eyes were looking at the inside of your skull, escaping is really quite a difficult thing to do. I don't think Gudrun was a very agreeable person. If you tried to Apparate out of her dungeons, you got turned all insides out. That would make escaping all the more vexing, I should think – like putting your head in a basket of toads."

"Of _course_ it would," said Draco with a roll of his eyes, but added nothing more to his jibe, for fear of George's fist in his face.

Nox had barely listened to Luna's endless prattling. Her attention had been focused on the vaguely alarmed looked on Viktor's face. She wasn't sure why, but her senses told her going anywhere alone with Minos Divine was a bad idea, and Nox knew enough to trust her senses. So she said, "George will go too."

George threw her a dry stare. "I will? You do realise I fell off my broom a few hours ago. My buttocks isn't feeling up for a walk."

"Well I wasn't suggesting it go without you," Nox said, with an airy wave of her hand. "Your legs will have a hand in carrying it."

"Blimey, there it is. It's finally happened," George sighed, pushing away from the table. "We've rubbed off on her. She's become _devious_."

**oOo**

They picked their way across the frosty gardens, past the headless dancing girls and the stone bears capering on their columns, through a small gap in the ring of rowan trees (they seemed nearer to the tower than before), where a narrow path sloped down towards a sunken garden. At the head of the group was Minos Divine, striding out briskly towards the garden and twirling a brass knobbed cane in one hand. Following in tow were George and Luna, her waist-length hair dishevelled by the wind. In the rear marched a very sullen looking Draco. A little vein on his forehead was pulsing in irritation at Luna, who was chattering even faster than before.

"All the statues dotted around here were once living, you know," said Luna, as they skidded down the slippery path into the sunken garden. "They used to call Gudrun the last of the Snow-Walkers, who were a race of old folk in the North that rather enjoyed turning anybody they didn't like into stone. Quite a lot of people must have vexed Gudrun by the looks of it. Being vexed must have been a habit of her's. It's a pity, I don't think anyone can enjoy life if they're too busy being vexed all the time. Ooh, look at that stone giant! That must have taken a lot of vexing to turn him into stone. I should think my head would explode with that amount of vexation."

"Who was Gudrun anyway? I've never heard of her before," said George, waving his wand at the stone giant so that the frost and icy melted away from its gruesome face.

Luna beamed. "Oh, yes you have! Everyone has. They just don't call her by her name. Most people nowadays call her the _Snow Queen_."

Draco snorted and tossed his head indignantly. "Stupid. What would a Hufflepuff know about Gudrun, anyway? Gudrun was Salazar Slytherin's mother – the greatest witch of the age. Not some ridiculous old fairytale used to shut kids up at night so they're parents could off and -"

"Speaking from experience, Malfoy?" said George.

The younger man bristled.

"I was in Ravenclaw, thank you very much," Luna retorted waspishly, the dreamy tone accompanying her prattle lost. "And I happen to know a great deal about Gudrun, too."

"Quibbler rubbish."

"It's not!"

"Leave off, toerag," said George, scuffing the back of Draco's head with his hand. "Unless of course you fancy becoming a legend yourself… _The Mysterious Disappearance of Draco Malfoy.._."

Draco scowled, but he was noticeably silent thereafter.

Minos slid an arm around Luna's shoulders, bright eyes smirking in amusement. "Don't bother Luna. There are just some minds in this world that won't be convinced without rock solid evidence. Sometimes even then they won't budge an inch." He patted her on the head, then strode deeper into the garden.

The sunken garden was nestled beneath a rocky overhang, its grounds a tangle of dead weeds and untended rosebushes. Here and there stood ancient standing stones engraved with runes; old Norse magic from days long before the Hogwarts Founders. At the bottom of the garden were the Bog Barrows. The great tombs were only just visible above the frozen swamp waters. Minos paused at the bank and beckoned Draco closer, excitably.

George took the opportunity to speak to the young witch privately.

"Was Gudrun really the Snow Queen?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course."

He fell silent, frowning.

"Is there something wrong, George? You look like you've had an encounter with a Wrackspurt infestation. They are irritating, aren't they? Like forgetting what you're saying halfway through saying it."

He shook his head and grinned. "Probably nothing, Lu. I keep feeling like there's something important about all this _Snow Queen_ stuff, but…Nah. Forget it. It's daft."

"Oh. Well, thank you anyway."

He blinked. "For what?"

"For calling me 'Lu'. It's much nicer without the 'Loony'. It's almost like we're friends." She paused, then added carefully, "George, I was wondering why you lied earlier about what you saw in the mirror Erised."

Years of practise had turned George into an expert at remaining impassive in the face of an unexpected accusation.

"Lie? Me? Ha! Wouldn't dream of it." He patted her head and tried to walk around her, but she was quick on his heels.

"You did. I know you did," she insisted. "When you lie, you look like Fred."

He laughed. "I always look like Fred, likely on the account of us being twins and everything."

Before she could ask anymore questions, they had caught up to Draco and Minos who were crouched at the edge of the icy Bog Barrows. George chuckled sardonically to himself; he never thought he'd be glad of someone like Malfoy's company.

"Why are you here on your own anyway, Malfos?" George asked, trying to ignore Luna's owlish gaze, which was boring a nice round hole in the side of his head (as if he needed another).

Draco turned and stuck his pointed nose into the air. "What's it to you, Weasley?"

"It's a woman, naturally," answered Minos, tossing George a knowing wink, who snorted with laughter.

"You're kidding?"

Draco had gone red. "Shut up. And quit sticking your nose in other people's business, alright!"

"It's one of the Greengrass kids," Minos continued, picking up a handful of little pebbles and tossing them at the nearest Barrow. "Their family visits Blackwater Hall each year for Vik's Hogmanay ball, so Draco here likes to arrive nice and early. Girl's rebuffed him every year so far, but who knows - maybe tonight'll be the night. Come on lad, stop your scowling. You'll scare her off with a face like that!" he laughed, poking Draco hard in the ribs with his cane.

"We can only hope he does," said George, who knew he'd live a much happier existence knowing a family like the Malfoys couldn't pass on their poisonous genes any further.

"You shouldn't do that, you know," Luna chided Minos coolly, who was still pelting the Barrows with his stones. "It's disrespectful. Besides, you'll wake the Bog Sprites and they can get particularly nasty if their hibernation is disturbed. Also, I think it's very likely that there are Infer-" She jumped suddenly, turning in the direction of the trees. "Oh! Did you hear that?"

George turned around. "Hear what?"

"The wolves." If Luna's eyes could have grown any wider, they would have popped out their sockets. "I don't much like wolves…"

Minos raised his hand for silence.

"Might be Fenrir again," muttered George.

Now it was Draco's turn to jump. "W-what? It can't be! He was caught by the Ministry… Wasn't he?"

"No, it's not him," said Minos. "Those are just your run-of-the-mill wolves. Nothing to fear there, Luna. They're just big dogs. There's not been a case of a wolf attacking a human in these parts for the last four hundred years." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Course, we've been hearing a lot more of them than normal lately. Probably not too happy with what Voldemort did to Garm." He turned his shining eyes on George. Neither noticed the frozen swamp begin to steam. "Vik told me you ran into Garm in the forest earlier - big wolf, you can't have missed him, he's the size of a double-decker. Voldemort chained him up there during the war." He chuckled and tossed another couple of stones at the Barrow. "Must've chewed up the Dark Lord's slippers or something."

"There's a face in there…" Draco trembled, staggering backwards.

Luna leaned further over the edge.

Draco swallowed thickly. "That's not _right_..."

"Nox said she talked to Garm after we crashed the broom," said George, deaf to Draco's whimpering. "But talking animals is taking it a stretch far, isn't it? He an animagus or something?"

"No, all wolf," Minos replied, leaning casually on his cane. "An old boy, too. Been around a good few hundred years, or so I gather. And I bet you speech isn't the only thing he's learned over the time. Voldemort slaughtered his pack after they refused to join him. Shame, really. Same thing happened to a group of vampires we were friendly with in the neighbourhood. Old Voldie didn't take kindly to being told 'no'."

George nodded darkly. "Yeah, he wasn't one for…oi, Luna, don't get to close to the – _Luna!_"

The bog grass had snaked along the bank and was currently winding itself around Luna's ankles without the girl realising. In two strides George was behind her, dragging her away from the bank just before two long, white arms erupted through the icy surface, clawing madly at the bank where she had been crouched only seconds before.

They stared in surprise as the bog water simmered for a while, then became calm again. But now they could see the face – _faces_ – through the hole in the ice the snatching arms had made. There were hundreds of them – pallid, drowned faces with wide searching eyes, all pressed up against the ice, staring into eternity. Draco had already bolted back up the path without waiting to see if anyone had been hurt.

"Slimey little git," said George, with a contemptuous glance at young wizard's back. He looked down, his arms still full of Luna's slight form. He could feel her heart racing against his wrist. It felt delicate, like a bird's. He let go of her hastily. "You alright?"

Luna smiled brightly. "Fine, thank you. It was very good of you to rescue me." She gazed down at the faces in the water. "I thought there might be Inferi here. They are very sad creatures, aren't they? They don't have any memories of laughter or tears, or pudding. All they know and see is death."

"A pitiful existence," said Minos, leaning on his cane over the icy bog and the faces below. "Still, think of all the secrets down there. If you wanted to keep something out of another's hands, there's the place to hide it alright. I bet you there's a thousand nasty little secrets in that bog that no one will ever get their hands on again…" He smiled at them, but it was not the carefree smile of before.

Suddenly, he turned and twirled his cane in the air, pointing it forwards, and as he did so, George thought he caught a flash of gold beneath his gloved left hand. "Right, let's move on! This isn't the sort of thing we want to remember of the last night of the year. There's some fine quality brandy stored back at Blackwater."

As Minos marched away ahead, Luna caught George's sleeve in a gentle tug. He turned to face her.

"Thank you again for saving me back there," she said. "It really was brave."

"Dunno about brave," said George, with a wry grin. "Good timing, more like."

"Oh, no, I think you're very brave! Quite possibly the bravest person I know and I think I have met a great deal of brave people," she said. "But yes, I think I'm definitely correct in saying you are the bravest of them all."

Her tone was not meant to flatter him, George realised, feeling a little bit awkward. She meant every word she said. Luna never wasted time in saying things she did not believe. They began to follow Minos towards the tower, a light snow swirling around them.

"I was very happy when Fred came back, you know," Luna said at length. "It seemed wrong seeing you not together, a bit like having eight toes on one foot, if you know what I mean – unbalanced. But… I think I was also very sad too, because now Fred's a ghost and you're all human and he will be around forever, but you'll go out like a candle flame."

Her owlish gaze was on him again. George tried not to look. He had never known anyone whose gaze felt like a living entity, opening you up and examining you like one would flip open the pages of a book.

"You're always smiling," she continued softly, "but I think you must be very worried about him. It must be a very difficult thing to do, laughing and smiling all the time. I mean, it must be like walking upside down on a ceiling stuck with eggshells. I'm sure I'd get too dizzy and sore to stay on."

George laughed and patted her head. "Thanks for the concern, but I've not turned into Harry just yet. It's not that hard, Lu. I've still got him around." But a little voice in his head added, _'for now'._

**oOo**

"I just have a feeling."

"What sort of a feeling?"

"A _bad_ feeling."

"Blimey, not one of those again."

Nox flipped open her little red notebook, tapping her pen against the scribbled pages.

"I just think Luna might be onto something with Viktor here. He does seem odd for a vampire, doesn't he? And it's as if he's just fading away before our eyes. I mean, I know vampires are supposed to be creatures of the night, but still… I feel there's something more to his leaving V.A.M.P."

"Hold on, you have a bad feeling about a _vampire?_" said Fred, unable to keep a straight face. "I suppose you think the ogre in our basement's a bit iffy, too."

"No, I – what ogre?" Nox sighed. "Look, never mind. Go and haunt something. I'll do some investigating on my own."

"Calm down, Mug-a-lug, I'm taking you seriously. _Seriously_."

She drew him a blank look. "I hate it when you sound honest. It makes me feel like the world's about to end."

"Maybe it is," he teased.

They found Viktor in the entrance hall, hanging up a painting between the seventh and eighth doors. It was a tall, beautiful portrait of a young woman with long, golden tresses and a round, smiling face that looked kind and welcoming, rather like Mrs Weasley's (when she wasn't screaming bloody murder at one of the twins' nefarious plots). Viktor stood back and took in his work, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Do you like her?" he asked, without turning his head.

Fred and Nox exchanged a glance, and then moved closer. At a second glance, the woman's eyes had a tinge of sadness to them, as though she knew of grave tidings to come, but smiled on regardless.

"She's beautiful," said Nox admiringly, "but quite poignant."

"Someone you know?" Fred enquired.

Viktor shook his head. "Not personally, no. But sometimes I almost feel I do… They say that every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. I think that rule can be applied here." He looked at them, his eyes duller and more darkly ringed with shadows than before. "Do you know who the artist was?"

"It wasn't you?" said Nox in surprise.

"Oh no, not I. Salazar Slytherin, one thousand years ago, painted this woman. And the lovely lady he painted was Helga Hufflepuff."

The figure in the portrait inclined her head and smiled benignly.

"Thousand years?" Fred whistled. "She's in fair good nick." Then, with a double-take at the vampire, he spluttered, "Hang on, d'you say Slytherin…and _Hufflepuff?_"

Without answering, Viktor turned and walked towards the spiralling staircase. He paused briefly at the railing, turning a lazy eye towards Nox and said, "You might want to change. My guests will be arriving shortly."

**oOo**

Viktor Lestrade's New Year ball was not what she would call traditional. Of course, Nox was basing this on Muggle traditions. Having punch bowls labelled: Blood Type C, Blood Type AB, Extract of Ectoplasm and Dragon's Sting, a hired band of screaming ghouls (aptly named,_ The Howling_) and a guest list of witches, wizards and every monster she had ever lain wide awake at night in bed thinking about, might have been perfectly normal for a vampire's party.

Still. Hogmanay was meant to be a time for family. At a glance, Nox thought most of the people at Viktor's gathering didn't have family. Packs perhaps, or litters. Some of them looked like they'd eaten their families. One in particular looked like it was contemplating eating her. She fixed her strongest double-barrelled glare at him, her… _it_. The monster turned back so suddenly that it tripped over a huddle of gnomes and ended in the Blood Type O Negative punch.

Some of them were grinning. Monsters, Nox felt, shouldn't grin. Any monster that was grinning was most assuredly about to eat you. They shouldn't be wearing fancy-dress either, but, well, it _was_ New Year.

She leaned heavily into her chair, but only once her brain had assured her, yes, it's a real chair, it's not about to turn into a goat and run off with you. The last one had turned into a mule. Fred and George were still laughing.

"Laugh it up, you reprobates," she grumbled.

"Do we detect a note of unseasonable grumpiness?" Fred enquired sweetly.

"You'll soon detect my unseasonably airborne shoe flying through your head," she said, grunting into her beer.

George took a handful of hard-boiled sweets from a dish. "Ah, humbugs." He handed them to Nox. "Come on, it's funny! Cheer up, you look fine. If I were a damsel in distress, I'd be swooning into your arms right now."

Nox looked uncertainly down at the blue and gold trimmed Duke's uniform she wore, complete with ruffles and a curly wig. It had been the only outfit that fitted her, having once belonged to the previous owner of Blackwater Hall, (a slight little man who had hanged himself because 'he couldn't stand the screaming any longer'). The outfit didn't bother her so much. Nor did the fact that nearly everyone at the ball had mistaken her for a boy – she was used to that sort of thing. What did worry her was the attention she was receiving from a hag resembling an old tree stump across the room.

The stump winked and blew a kiss at her. Nox paled.

"Come on, loosen up a bit," Fred pressed. "You should be singing festive New Year songs to light the tender hearts of all the big nasty monsters in here. I'm sure they'd appreciate the gesture. Might even make them think twice about eating you."

"Fine…" Nox cleared her throat briskly. "Erm, deck the holly…er, it's rather jolly… _murffle, murff-murr,_ _something ending in 'olly._"

The twins stared at her blankly.

"Beautiful."

"I'm lost for words."

"Genuinely brought a tear to my eye."

George pulled his top hat, the one she had seen him wear the very first day they'd met, out of the seemingly bottomless inner pockets of his bottle-green coat, and placed it on his head at a typically jaunty angle. It was an ancient thing to be sure. Certainly it had accompanied more than one life; it may even have evolved some. Nox had always thought it looked a bit strange and formal on him.

"Why do you wear that thing?" she asked curiously.

"Because," George began, tapping his nose with affected slyness, "it's _lucky_."

"Lucky my arse. That things got you hexed to buggerdom," said Fred. "Look at the year you've had since you found it."

"Ah, true, but I'm still alive," George replied, bracingly.

_The Howling _had finished their gig and were hastily slithering off-stage to some applause, several pieces of rotten fruit and a number of flying hexes. The crowd was quickly subdued by the following act; a trio of sirens, with pale silver skin and moonstones through their flowing hair. After a moment, Nox felt forced to wave a hand over the twins' gaze, whose jaws were just about scraping the floor. Neither showed any reaction.

She made her way through the dense crowd to a table laden with snacks and drinks, eyeing the labels carefully.

"Typical. I see some of Arthur's children have weaselled their way in here tonight. That must be the one Rookwood blew up. Such a pity," said a voice behind her, who had the bored tone of one discussing an unfortunate change in weather.

Nox peered at the speaker out the corner of her eye. This could only be Draco Malfoy's father. He certainly had the same cold, disinterested eyes, pointed nose and haughty appearance his junior did.

"But it's not as though Arthur's really lost a son," he drawled.

His wife raised on delicate eyebrow, coolly. "Why is that?"

A faint sneer coiled itself across Mr Malfoy's face. "One twin is much the same as the other. Besides, that family has so many children running wild around the place it's unlikely they've even noticed one of them is deceased- _UGH!_"

The wizard stared at the reddening stain on his cloak where Nox had spilt the contents of her wineglass down him.

"Whoops," she said dryly. "Silly me."

He scowled at her, hand twitching at his wand.

"Clumsy oaf!" Mrs Malfoy snapped. "Look where you're going!"

Nox muttered a very brusque, unconvincing apology, and headed back to the twins who were now standing chatting with Luna. Her firedrake, Zogbob, had returned and was looking very interested in a huddle of frightened gnomes nearby.

"Malfoys giving you a hard time, eh?" said George.

Fred shot the couple a contemptuous glare, cracking his silver knuckles menacingly. "Wish I could smack him one. I can't believe Lucius got away from Azkaban again. Bloody mental."

"What did he do?" asked Nox.

"What _didn't _he do," said George calmly. "He was one of Voldemort's followers. He and his wife might not be directly responsible for a lot of the deaths that went on over the war, but he certainly had a hand in them in one way or another."

Fred bent closer to her ear. "That woman over there, his wife – that's Bellatrix Lestrange's sister."

Luna clutched Zogbob's scaly body tighter. "I hated duelling Bellatrix. It was like fighting off an Iranian twin-headed Manticore, only worse. She really meant to kill me and Ginny."

Nox surveyed the room for Draco. This took a while. It was large room, situated on the west side of the tower. Its windows must have looked out onto the sunken garden and the Bog Barrows beyond it, but the view was obscured by the stained glass. They were a strange feature in an otherwise featureless tower. There were three windows. The first was a werewolf, bent and snarling, much like the one they had encountered on Dartmoor. The second was a spindly, spiky fellow, who might have answered to the name _Frost_. The third was a dark robed figure holding a scythe, the flesh on one side of its face having peeled away so that a skull grinned out of the glass at the dancers below. There was a symbol in the glass above the Grim Reaper's head; a circle with a vertical line in the centre, enclosed by a triangle. Nox knew she had seen this symbol before.

Beneath the last window stood Draco, his pointed face turning scarlet with rage. Nox followed his line of sight to a dancing couple on the floor – Minos Divine and a young woman, who seemed very happy to be receiving the older man's attentions. Draco, on the other hand, was not.

This little domestic would not have bothered Nox at all, had it not been for the look of concern on Viktor Lestrade's face.

'_No…'_ Nox mused, narrowing her eyes, _'not concern. Fear.'_

She jumped as something icy cold landed on her shoulder. It took her a moment to realise it was Fred's hand.

"Fancy a dance?"

She turned her head and coughed embarrassedly. "I don't dance."

"Why?"

"Because I _can't_ dance. I'd kill someone out there with my feet."

"That's no excuse," George chortled. "Fred's a master of can't-dancing."

"It's true. I pride myself on my lack of dance-floor skills," Fred agreed, drawing himself up with pride. "Come on Mug-lug!"

Grudgingly, she followed the ghost into the middle of the floor, but her eyes never left the vampire, whose fearful gaze in turn never left his friend.

Outside, the snow fell faster. The Barrows trembled, the rowans uprooted their ends, and the wolves began to run…

**oOo**

* * *

Mwaha, I can't wait to write the rest of this story. So happy to drag Percy into the flow finally. I know a lot of people might hate him in fandom, but I love him and his dynamic with the twins. I've always felt he deserved something more than what he got in DH.

I think I might write a back-story to Viktor and Minos (how they came to live in the Black Forest). Is it painfully obvious I based Minos' looks on Gellert Grindelwald? Yeah? Ah well. Say la ve!

Ooh, wish me luck! I'm off on a 95 mile hike tomorrow. Yay for the Highlands of Scotland, where there be mountains and… er, heather… and pubs!

**Terrific Tina:** Thank you very much mate! Happy to hear you're enjoying the story so far (I enjoyed writing the Fred-pillow – figures he'd turn his powers of possession onto something like that XD)

**Asta Amkis:** That's really nice of you to say mate, cheers for the confidence boost! I've got a few ideas in store for the whole George x Luna x Rolfe thing (I'm working on developing Rolfe's character at the moment ). What I've got planned for this casebook will really kick off the GxL romance ;)

**ragmuffin muncher:** Haha, that's a bleeding awesome username, I commend ye - lol! Thanks for the fab comment mate! :D


	20. Casebook 03: The Wolves

**A/N:** 300 REVIEWS! Guys, you rock my world. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without your amazing support. You've given me fantastic critique and as a result, I feel like I'm finally developing my skills as an author – so thank so very much. To FireValkyrie (my American lover!!), you are brilliant, as is that fantabulous Nox x Live comic strip LOL! And Anireth on Deviantart has done a couple of really beautiful manips for this casebook. Argh, there's so many people to thank for beeooteeful fanart!!

**IMPORTANT EDIT: **Title of this chapter's been changed to avoid further confusion, haha XD

**Soundtrack for this chapter**

**The Dagger –** Tia Dalma (Hans Zimmer, POTC, Dead Man's Chest)**  
Percy Enters/Wolves at the Door** – A Family Affair (Hans Zimmer, POTC, Dead Man's Chest)**  
Wrong Way –** You Look Good Jack (Hans Zimmer, POTC, Dead Man's Chest)**  
Greed & Sloth –** Hello Beastie (Hans Zimmer, POTC, Dead Man's Chest)

* * *

_From this story one learns that children,  
__Especially young girls,  
__Pretty, well bred, and genteel,__  
Are wrong to listen to just anyone,  
And it's not at all strange,  
If a wolf ends up eating them.  
I say a wolf, but not all wolves  
Are exactly the same.  
Some are perfectly charming,  
Not loud, brutal, or angry,  
But tame, pleasant, and gentle,  
Following young ladies into their homes, into their chambers,  
But watch out if you haven't learned that tame wolves  
Are the most dangerous of all_

- Perrault (note after the first literary adaptation of Red Riding Hood, 1697)

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives  
**Casebook 03: The Wolves

**oOo**

Eleven O'clock.

A clock tower was chiming the hour beyond the snow-tipped pines of the Black Forest.

The Snow Queen's tower – Blackwater Hall – appeared blurred from a distance. Creepers had begun to writhe and wriggle around its shape, tightening its grip, squeezing blood from the stone. Some of the creepers sprouted thorns, three foot long and sharp enough to pierce bone. Bellatrix floated onto a branch of a tree beside her crooked partner, heavy lidded eyes skimming the pines.

"Cissy and I used to play in the forest. Rabbits and gnomes, we caught. Rabbits and gnomes. We even caught a faerie, once. Cissy brought it home and kept it in a silver cage by the fire for two weeks until it bit me. So I cut off its legs and gave it rabbit feet." Something akin to a smile snaked across Bellatrix's sharpened features. "What a hideous sight, Cissy cried so hard. Ugly thing didn't die for a whole hour afterwards; went screaming all the way into Death's clutches," she said, darkly. "Cissy is in there. I bet she's dancing." Her silver face hardened. "_Blood traitor. _She'll pay for what she's done to our family, what she did to the Dark Lord. To think my own sister – if I could, I'd slit her throat with my own fingernails! See if she doesn't die tonight. You SEE if she doesn't."

"I'm sure you'll dance on her grave, but mind you be careful, Bella," said the crooked goblin. "Be a pity to lose your nerve in this forest. Even ghosts can be undone, or had you forgotten about your plan for the little dead Weasley boy?"

Blood dripped from the goblin's twisted fingernails. Beneath them on the forest floor, already partially scavenged by the creatures of the night, was a bloody mess of hair and limbs. Somewhere beyond the trees in a little village, there was an agonised scream as a Muggle man threw back his daughter's bed sheets.

Red Cap licked his fingers.

"Fear some trees?" Bellatrix sneered. "What is there to be afraid of from a few weeds and dirty werewolf scum? Look there," she pointed one long, sharp finger towards Blackwater Hall, slowly strangled by the Devil's Snare, "the forest fears _us_!"

"No it doesn't," Red Cap stated bluntly, picking his sharpened teeth clean with a small bone. "It fears Gudrun, as well it should do. Hear the drums? The mountains remember. They remember the smell of the blood splashing down its slopes and the unnatural experiments the dark majesty prepared in their caves, and of what lies in those Bog Barrows. They won't forget. It's in the earth, uprooting the trees, poisoning the land. The Black Forest is squeezing out her tower." His wicked yellow eyes flashed in amusement and he chuckled dryly. "But that tower was the heart of Gudrun's world. Gave birth to the first werewolf, it did. And it won't give easily. Blood's on the wind tonight, the wolves know it. Look at them run."

And sure enough, grey shapes were moving through the forest floor, padding silently towards the tower, the occasional glimmer of yellow eyes in the dark.

Suddenly, not so far away, there came a crackling amongst the pine trees. Bellatrix squinted through the darkness. There was a spiky figure, like a human porcupine, leaping through the forest from tree to tree, cackling and crackling as he went. Every time his nimble feet touched a branch, it glittered and sparkled as though scattered with diamonds. The air turned crisp, but it did not occur to the ghost why she should be able to sense this change in temperature.

The crooked goblin growled, then sprinted down the tree with the agility of a cat, beckoning Bellatrix to follow him.

"Who is that?" she demanded. "Why are we hiding from him?!"

"That is _Frost_," he muttered grimly, watching a fine lace of ice crystals crawl over the twisted body of his victim, who lay on the ground. "Don't let him see you. He likes a natter."

"Wretched little imp," she growled. "I thought he was just some pages in a book. What's he doing here_?_ Just cut his head off!"

But the goblin ignored her, only muttered quietly to himself, "What indeed?" and watched the slight figure leaping from fir to pine through the white, frozen forest, cackling as he went.

**oOo**

"For someone who can't dance, you're very good at pretending. You've only stepped through me twice – _thrice_." She laughed, despite the icy cold foot that had just slipped through her leg.

Fred grinned. "Niceties? After only six months? Careful Nox, or I might fall in love with you before midnight," he teased, as they settled into an unsteady mock waltz around the dance floor, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back, the other folding around her hand. "In consideration, a terrifying concept really. Imagine our children."

"They'd just be cold air," Nox replied in a lightly mocking lilt, eyes laughing at him. Her eyes were always clear and grey, but when they smiled they looked so much darker, like the sky before a lightning storm.

Fred's patented devil-may-care grin grew wider. "Air with a mighty dollop of sarcasm," he replied with satisfaction.

His eyes flickered around the room, first settling on the Malfoys, who were poised at the edge of the dance floor, looking disinterested and important as ever, and then settled on a pretty dead Veela girl, floating palely beside a ghoul. He caught the girl's eye with the ease of one who'd had years of practise; she smiled at him, prettily. For a moment, he considered ditching Nox and asking the girl for a dance.

Nox cocked her head towards the girl, who was looking imploringly at Fred. "You look like you've just been struck in the arse with Cupid's arrow."

"And what a fine arse to use as target practise, if I do say so myself. Just a passing flirtation." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I'm very good at those."

"I bet you are."

"Ahh," he drawled in a low voice, "colour me impressed, you're not so bad yourself."

He smirked, inclining his head towards her, close enough that she could make out the little cuts and scrapes across his semi-transparent face, and a darker shadow that might have been a gash where a ceiling had fallen in on him…

Nox quickly averted her gaze, forcing a smile.

"That wasn't flirting. That was honesty," she replied drolly.

"Good Godric, substituting flirting for honesty? Criminal!" he said, in mock disgust. "You definitely need a few lessons in Freddism, Nox. Here, let me give you your first class-"

"Sounds like a subject I'd happily flunk. And keep your hands where they are. I may be wearing ruffles, but I can still end you," she said archly, stepping out of his reach. "I quite like my reputation as it is – only slightly marred by debt, a dodgy profession, and even dodgier company."

The amusement in his silver eyes only became keener. "You say that, but I know deep down you're wishing my fine arse had been Cupified for you."

His gaze drifted again to a spot in the middle of the floor where Viktor's associate, Minos Divine, was spinning a pretty witch with long dark locks, into his arms.

"Here, take a look at Minos, would you. Gotta admire his diplomacy. That's a dedicated model womaniser, alright," Fred said admiringly, and gave Minos a mock salute.

"Pot, kettle, black…"

"Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment. Swing," he instructed, lifting his arm for her to twirl under. She was getting better, he admitted. This time she barely stumbled over her big feet and actually succeeded in guessing where his hand would be when she turned. "Think that's one of the Greengrass girls he's dancing with. Old wizarding family, all in Slytherin – most Dark Wizards were in Slytherin's house at Hogwarts," Fred quickly explained at the look of confusion on her face. "Voldemort sure was, anyway. And Bonkers Bella."

"Draco, too?" she asked.

"Too right, he was."

The amusement in her eyes dimmed. He watched her chew the inside of her mouth thoughtfully, already knowing the question she was working up to.

"Fred… Exactly how bad was the war?" she asked at length.

"Bad." He gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Most of the people here lost someone they loved… See, over there: Miranda Twiddy. Came home to find her parents in bits all over the floor. And over there, Edgar and Elphina Humperdink. You don't want to know what happened to their kids." He growled. "Only six and eight. The big guy attempting to talk to Vik there is Thurl Ravenscroft. His sister led a small band of protestors down Diagon Alley on Halloween '97, the year the war broke out. What d'you think happened to her?"

"I don't think I want to know," she said, with a faint grimace.

"Took away her wand and burned her alive in the middle of the street, right in front of Gringotts bank for all to see. Papers said it was an accident, but anyone who bought that pack of lies was a bloody idiot," he said darkly. "Muggles got hit too, of course. Death Eaters – Voldemort's lot – used to hit their homes regularly for sport." The foxish twinkle in his eye dimmed while he talked, old familiar feelings of the war bubbling up from the past. "All because some jumped up little Slytherin sod had a big mummy complex."

"I can't believe this all went on under half the country's nose," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "You don't have to talk about it, you know. Not if it's just for my benefit."

Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "Better talking about it than sweeping it under the rug. That's what happened after the First War. No one even dared mention Voldemort's name and because of that, fear became his strongest weapon in the war."

_The Howling_ had started back on stage again, kicking up an upbeat tempo entitled, _Scream me a Dream_. Dancing with Fred suddenly became like dancing with a whirlwind as he leapt from one foot to the other, barely touching the ground.

Something caught his eye as they spun across the floor. His grin darkened.

"Brilliant – have a look at Malfoy's face. He must be after that Greengrass girl. Slimy little scumbag couldn't find his own arse with both hands, let alone her's."

"Delightful shade of lobster red he's turning," Nox observed.

"Yeah, you could fry an egg on that humongous forehead." He cackled, gleefully, motioning her to spin again. "I might have to take notes from Minos. Could practise a few of his techniques on my Angelina."

"Were you two together before you, _y'know_?" Nox asked, before stumbling over a tail belonging to a monster with too many heads.

"Before the war? Hmm, occasionally. " His eyes glimmered with innuendo. "Wasn't really a time to get hooked up or anything, mind. Bit busy driving Death Eaters off," he said in a nostalgic tone, smiling at the memories of mischief this provoked.

"Are you in love with her?" she asked with idle curiosity.

Fred slowed their dancing a bit. "I dunno. Maybe." He mulled it over a minute, and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Terribly committal of you," she said with a half-amused, appraising smile. "Does she love you?"

He tried to keep a straight face, but the muscles (or the memory of those) around the corners of his mouth kept twitching convulsively.

"Tsk, have you no shame? How many questions have you got in that bag of yours tonight? One minute you're banging on about Viktor, next you're nosing in on my – whoops! Sorry!" he hastily apologised to a large ogre whose back Fred had accidentally slid through, mid-waltz.

He caught Nox around the waist again, grinning unabashed.

"Maybe you should lead… That is, if you can take your eyes off Viktor for a moment. What's got you so interested in him? The way you're studying him, he might as well be an Egyptian curse."

"Let's see if you can work it out for yourself. What is it detective's do exactly?" she said, sarcastically.

"Attract trouble?"

"No, that's your forte."

Fred laughed. "Okay, but let's be honest here. You see a vampire, you don't think, there's a chap I could pop down to the Leaky with. No, and you know why? Because he's a _vampire._ They're _bred_ suspicious. Comes part and parcel with the teeth and the big gothic tower, you know."

"Yes, alright," she allowed, mulling, "but, well, just _look_ at him. He turns a paler shade of white every minute."

Fred nodded, rubbing his chin in consideration. "Oh. Well. That's irrefutable then. Slap on the cuffs and bang him up then."

"You're being sarcastic."

"Sarcastic?" Fred looked wounded. "As if I'd know how."

"May I cut in?" a voice said behind him. Minos Divine did not wait for a reply, sweeping Nox into an embrace and off into the crowd before either could protest. "No harm done, Freddie! You'll get your partner back soon enough," he called, cheekily.

Nox sent Fred a despairing look as she clumsily stumbled after Minos' lead.

Behind them, Draco was making an unsuccessful attempt to woo Astoria Greengrass. Fred rubbed his eyes, half-smiling. He recognised the look on Draco's pointed, rat-like face. It was the look of one who was trying to convince you that the world really did revolve around them. Still, there was a definite change in Draco's countenance. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's egos might have remained more or less intact, but the war had definitely brought their son's pride down a peg or two.

Draco's wooing session was abruptly cut short as George and Luna crashed into him, dancing an energetic jig that made them look as though they were trying to rid themselves of an ant infestation.

Fred drifted over to the main banquet table, where swarms of house-elves were negotiating their way around the table legs and chairs, handing out goblets of bubbling tonics and platters of exotic looking dishes. Viktor Lestrade was sitting at the centre of the table beside a slight, bespectacled wizard wearing an orange party hat, fashioned like a crown. Sitting, darkly elegant, with aristocratic reserve, the vampire only appeared to be half-listening to his excitable associate, raising an eyebrow now and then or taking a careful sip from his goblet.

"Gold, Sanguini, oodles of it!" Fred heard the wizard squeal. "Found down in Freudenstadt this afternoon. Not normal stuff, you understand. No doubloons or jewels or golden staffs – parts. _Body_ parts." The bespectacled man gave an involuntary shudder, though the greedy light in his journalistic eye never shifted. "The Ministry thinks its Fools' Gold over course, but just imagine if it weren't!"

Viktor sighed. "Gold holds no interest for me Eldred, you know that."

"Gracious, Sanguini, everyone has an invested interest in gold. You wouldn't be human if you didn't – er, well…you know what I mean. Oh, look here!" Eldred said with a start, as Fred drifted down to sit across from them. "One of our Hogwarts finest heroes! Fred Weasley isn't it?"

Fred grinned. "Yeah, that's right."

"Eldred Worple, author of _Blood Brothers_." He stuck out a plump hand to Fred, then jumped back, looking terribly embarrassed. "Goodness, I'm so sorry dear boy! Whatever must you think of me? Tell me, lad, have you ever considered an autobiography? People out there are simply _dying_ to learn of your experience…erm, no pun intended, naturally –"

Viktor cleared his throat noisily.

The little wizard shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course, of course. Terrible idea. Whatever was I thinking? Ah! There's Miranda Twiddy! What a stroke of luck, I've been dying to talk to her since, _you know_." He tapped his nose in a conspiratorial gesture and tried to look grim. "Terrible incident, just awful about her poor parents. Fred, when we get back to London we must meet up for a chat at the Leaky Cauldron, yes? My shout!" The little wizard pushed himself away from the table and jogged towards a young witch, calling in a sing-song voice, "Miranda! Miranda! I was just wondering, have you ever considered…"

"Bit of a plonker, isn't he?" said Fred, as they watched Eldred go.

"Hmm, but I wouldn't underestimate him," said Viktor. "My friend there can do surprising things with an axe."

Fred quirked a brow, bemused. "That he wields an axe is surprising."

"Do not judge Eldred too harshly. He lost a great deal of family in the war and found himself at the end of an Unforgivable. There is always a reason to madness. No one is born wicked."

"Tell that to the people left behind after Hogwarts," said Fred shortly.

"Ah, well, yes." The vampire looked at him, slyly. "Voldemort was rather a special case, wasn't he? A thousand years worth of bad blood running through his veins; war, hate, betrayal. The wars the Founders fought back then left the foundations of the very mountains trembling all over the world."

Fred nodded keenly. He had loved the old tales of the Founders when he'd been little; tales of Gryffindor's bravery and Hufflepuff's loyalty; stories of old magic and blood, where people fought and died gloriously in the midst of great battles. Those stories had never really left him. They'd been fighting right alongside him the night he'd plunged into the frenzy of the Battle of Hogwarts.

"The war that we saw in the river tiles earlier - the one where old Godric was riding a boar. Why didn't we see Salazar Slytherin there?" Fred asked curiously. "Had he already scarpered from Hogwarts by then?"

"Oh, he was there. Eventually," Viktor replied softly. "Coincidentally enough, the war they waged was against the lady of this house, Salazar's mother, Gudrun. More commonly known as–"

"The Snow Queen, yeah. I've read Beedle's tales." He scratched his head idly, feeling as though he was remembering something that hadn't happened yet. "Feels like she's been in and out of conversation for months, but I can't remember…" He trailed off, puzzled. "Er– what was I saying?"

Viktor considered him for a moment through heavy-lidded eyes. When he spoke again, it was with great effort, as though the physical act of speaking was draining the last of his strength. "I have a gift for you and your brother that might help a bit with your memory regarding Gudrun."

The vampire reached into his cloak and drew out a silver dagger, seven inches long and encrusted with emeralds. On the scabbard, there was a seal: a serpent with a red apple in its mouth, its body pierced by an arrow. Viktor laid the dagger in front of Fred.

Fred found he could not take his eyes off it. He brushed his pale fingers against the hilt. His memory suddenly felt razor sharp again.

"Once, this belonged to Gudrun and now I bequeath it to you, but you must promise never to draw the dagger out of its scabbard," said Viktor. "It's a cursed item. One prick of its blade will kill in a heartbeat."

Fred blinked, snapping his gaze away from the instrument. "Why give it to me? I mean, no offence, lovely gift and everything, but how can an old knife help me with my memory of her?"

"Because witches and wizards leave a special sort of imprint on objects, like a strand of memory," Viktor said, sloshing the contents of his goblet around, disinterestedly. "As long as you have this with you, you won't forget her."

"So," said Fred impatiently, "Gudrun has something to do with my curse then. Dandy. Guess that's what Bellatrix meant when she said the House of Slytherin isn't done with us yet." He paused. "She also said something about our house belonging to 'him'."

"I told you that your house once belonged to Sir Hector Oddness, alias 'Beedle the Bard'." Viktor smiled wryly. "Sir Hector became obsessive over Gudrun – most men do – and spent the remainder of his life chasing the mythos surrounding the Snow Queen all over the world, until at last he unearthed a house, _your house_, in London; a house he discovered Salazar Slytherin built one thousand years ago on the site where he slew his twin on Gudrun's order."

With a sigh, Viktor steepled his fingers together, his shadowy eyes foggy and unfocused.

"Rumour went that Sir Hector unearthed a few more things in that house that might have been better left alone. In any case, a body was never found."

Fred grunted. "Jenny Greenteeth told George the truth, then. We're bunking out in slimy Slytherin's house." He felt as though he'd just reached around and stabbed himself in the back. "Ugh. I feel dirty. How'd you know all this anyway?"

"There are few creatures of the dark who _don't_ know the predicament you're in, or of the storm that's coming," Viktor said coolly. "I have a tip for you that may help. The pieces of glass you collect are no ordinary things. They choose people who have a desire to be someone else or who have hearts that want strongly to be free of inhibitions. Once these hearts are pierced, their souls become fractured. I'm sure by now you've realised it takes a great act of remorse on their part for the glass shard to shift."

Fred thought back to Audra Beckinsale and Flaversham Potts, and of the piece of glass (Wrath and Pride) sitting beneath the green-fire writing on the wall. He nodded.

"Still," Fred said, peering at the silver dagger curiously, "thinking about what Gudrun might have done with this thing gives me the willies…"

Viktor looked surprised. "Oh, she had it. But she never used it." The vampire traced the seal with his finger. "No, this dagger was the weapon Salazar used to murder his twin."

**oOo**

Quarter to twelve.

An excited buzz filled the hall. The guests were already filing around the main table, making sure their drinks were topped up for the bells.

Nox sighed. Her feet ached from her feeble attempts at dancing, but Minos had no intention of stopping and she had quickly discovered that he was not a man who readily took no for an answer. He was richly dressed and had the look of one who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

"How long have you known Viktor?" she asked, after many painful minutes of listening to him sing along to the tune of _Hex My Heart Tonight_.

"Hmm? Oh. Years." Minos' face broke into an easy grin. "We went to Cambridge together," he added importantly.

"Figures."

"What?"

"Nothing," she lied. "But then, does that mean you're a Muggle?"

His piercing blue eyes gleamed at her. "Of course I am! Muggle-born and bred, just like you. Took a bit of adjusting to all this, but nothing surprises me anymore. It's not that Muggles haven't any instincts. It's just that we've forgotten how to use them. Toasters and automatic doors tend to strip one of one's primal instincts. Makes our world smaller, see. When it gets right down to it, the Ministry does very little to keep their world hidden – we hide it from ourselves."

Nox nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose you have to admire it in a way. We only see what our minds expect to see. Anything else is just sort of _there._" She hesitated. "I heard that Viktor had a wife…"

The expression on Minos' face never even twitched. "Yes. Lovely girl. There was a baby too, four months old." He swung her closer, his cheek now pressing against her ear. "Died in the war, you know. Vik's never been the same since."

His tone was a little too detached for her liking. She pulled away, uncomfortable at their closeness and as she did so, the chain around his neck, strung with gold rings, caught her eye. Beneath them was a little leather pouch, close to his heart.

"And you? Married, I mean."

"Engaged." Delight crossed his handsome face and he fingered the chain, lovingly. "To my true love."

She counted the rings hung on a chain around his neck. There were nine.

"Been a few true loves hasn't there," she remarked dryly.

Minos gave her an appraising look. "Vik was right about you, you know. Bit of a 'world's black and white' girl, aren't you? To possess someone's heart is a very powerful thing. To possess many, you might as well be a king."

"Loving someone doesn't mean possessing them," Nox argued. "If you look at someone as though they were a thing to win, how can you ever see what's really important?"

He sighed, but the amusement in his eyes never lapsed for an instant. "You don't know much about romance, do you?"

Nox paused to think about this. "I've read romance novels before," she said firmly. "Most of the girls in them are a bit wet – throwing themselves off cliffs or drinking poison whenever their man refuses their affections or up and dies. The blokes aren't much better."

"Dear me, your heart's as dry as old leaves!" Minos laughed. "Tragedy is the _essence_ of true love."

"Of course," she said, a shade sarcastically. "Nothing says romance like a bottle of poison and a nice pointy dagger."

He nodded sagely. "Now you're getting the hang of it."

"Just seems like a big waste of time to me, all that swooning and waving hankies at departing trains." She said with an indifferent shrug. "Surely there are people out there who just go out, meet their partners in a supermarket or a pub, argue, procreate, get married and get on with it. When it gets right down to it, romance's just glands and things, isn't it?"

The angles of his face contorted slightly in a dark grin. His hands were on her upper arms. His left hand felt cold through his glove. "If that's all it is, then why do people bother?" And he leant down and kissed her.

Kissing wasn't a habit of her's, but this wasn't entirely by choice. For one thing, it wasn't exactly a hobby you could take up on your own. Still, that someone could just kiss you out of the blue without so much as a warning irked her and she pulled away so hard that she fell over a passing house-elf and landed in a heap of knobbly arms and legs on the floor.

Minos gave her a look of amused puzzlement. "Must admit, that's never happened before," he laughed, and began to offer his arm when Draco's hand clapped down hard on his shoulder.

"We need to talk."

Minos made a small, disparaging noise, removing the other's hand from his shoulder with a faint grimace.

"Later, Draco. Run along to your parents like a good boy. I'm busy, unless you have a problem with that_._"

"No," said Draco, though his slight sneer said otherwise. "I'm perfectly fine talking here where everyone can hear about your filthy little war secrets or what's in that pouch around your neck–"

Minos raised a finger, jaw stiffening. "Fine, fine. If you insist." His voice dropped an octave as he spoke. "But do not blackmail me, Draco. That would be a very bad idea."

He turned and inclined his head towards Nox in a brief bow, eyes glittering blue. "I'll see you at the bells."

She watched, perplexed, as Minos steered Draco out of the ballroom, left hand firmly pressed against the back of the other's neck. It was a controlling gesture, one that made her uncomfortable. She did not need to turn around to know Viktor's eyes were following them out.

Her stomach lurched. If the twins were right and the Malfoys had served Voldemort during the war, then what part had Minos played in it?

Nox sat beside the twins, who were currently engrossed in a small, silver dagger. She found her brass-buttoned coat and pulled on, reaching into the pocket for her red -leather notebook.

"I have a bad feeling about this," she said, finally.

"I second that," said Fred. "If you're going to snog someone, d'you mind doing it when we're five miles out of radius, cheers. I'll have to get an eye transplant after that stomach-churning display."

"Smashingly executed, mind," said George. "Loved the bit where you almost crushed that house-elf to death with your rapidly descending arse."

"Well I thought it was very romantic," said Luna, who was struggling to bundle a wriggling Zogbob up in her arms. "But afterwards your mouth kept working like a fish who's climbed into a dragon's nest by mistake. Oh – dear… Please calm down! Zogbob hasn't been quite right since we got here. I think it must be the–"

"Forget about all that," Nox said, turning her gaze to Viktor who was still staring, slightly unfocused, at the door where Minos had disappeared. "Tell me honestly how well you know Minos."

Before he could answer, a great whoop rose from the crowd of guests as the first bell chimed. The tall, slender figure of Narcissa Malfoy came striding through the throng towards them, her husband following at a more leisurely pace.

"Where is my son?" she demanded archly. "It's almost midnight!"

"He left with Minos," Nox answered briskly. "He said they had something they needed to–"

"You let him go with that _madman?!_" Narcissa cried.

The third bell chimed.

"What're you on about?" said Fred.

"Minos was a _Snatcher_, you great dead fool," Lucius said, giving him a tiresome look. "Why do you think Fenrir Greyback is slithering around the Black Forest? They worked together. Minos never could keep his greedy hands off a pot of gold. Tell me which way they went, or do we use wands?"

Fred glared, getting to his feet. "What're you going to do, Malfoy? Kill me?"

The sixth bell chimed. Guests were raising their glasses, preparing for the final count down. Eldred Worple had already tossed his party hat into the crowd with a great cheer.

"Incriminating your mates, Lucius? Bit late for that ain't it." George snorted derisively, hand already slipping to the wand in his pocket. "Besides, didn't think that was your sty–"

There was a BANG as the ballroom doors were flung wide open and a large ogre, wearing a purple waistcoat and a spotted bowtie, trundled into the room dragging a struggling wizard by the scruff of his neck. The eighth bell chimed.

"Mishter Lestrade, sir," it grunted, depositing the wizard on the banquet table. "Found 'im trying to sneak in."

Viktor looked up, surprised, as though he'd just woken from a bad dream.

"What?"

"I caughts him sneaking, sir," the ogre repeated. "Shall I smash his head in and break his funny bones?"

"N-NO!" the man squeaked, wriggling frantically off the table. "Unhand me at once, you vile brute! You've no idea how _impor-phant if ish!_" The end of his sentence was muffled due to the ogre's large hand flattening his head against the table.

Viktor sighed. "That's enough, Eric," he said, waving the ogre off. "You can go now."

Fred and George surveyed the body on the table that seemed to be made primarily out of knees, and smiled wickedly.

"Well, well. _P-P-P-Percival!_"

"Fancy meeting you here."

"But hold on a sec…" Fred scratched his head. "This can't be our brother."

"No chance," said George. "Percy doesn't gatecrash parties. That'd be far too cool."

"Nah, his idea of a good time is a boiled egg and a stack of files needing sorted."

Percy heaved an impressive sigh, blowing air through his nose so fast that it whistled. His thin, freckled face was flushed and anxious, and the twins suddenly realised with a start that he was bleeding.

Before they could ask any questions, Percy had grabbed George's arm and hauled him forwards, furiously. "Do you have _any_ idea how much danger you're in?!"

The last bell had chimed. It was midnight. The guests laughed and cheered, and downed their Firewhiskey. Eldred Worple took off all his clothes and chased the trio of sirens around the room. The house-elves's eyes found the windows and grew wide. Something slithered past the stained glass. The tower groaned. The distant drums grew louder.

"You're bleeding," Luna stated, her owlish gaze on Percy. "Did you know that? It looks quite–"

The world was suddenly rent apart, exploding into light and sound and confusion. Hot air rushed towards them, sucking the oxygen out of their lungs and turning the world upside down. Debris cut their skin and bruised their bones. The air was filled with screams.

Blood drummed painfully in her ears. Nox could not remember her feet ever leaving the ground, or even the sound of the far wall exploding inwards. After what seemed like an eternity, the room began to right itself again as gravity filtered back into its space. There was a ringing in her ears, like a bad signal on a radio, and something hot and sticky covered her right eye, preventing her from opening it fully. She was lying beneath the banquet table – or rather, it lay on her.

Panic seized her like a vice a she looked frantically around for the others. Her heart was audibly threatening to pack up, climb out her mouth and run out the room. Luna was beside her, curled protectively around Zogbob. Her dress was torn and her ankle was bleeding, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Nox put her hands around Luna's shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief when the girl turned to look at her with a shaky smile.

"That was quite unexpected," she said hoarsely. "I feel like I've been squeezed out through my ear. Zogbob's okay. Where is George? And Viktor? We really must find them."

"We'll find them." Nox righted herself, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around Luna's shoulders, and shouted out to the darkness. "Is everyone alright? George?! Fred?!"

"Ah, bugger… I'm dead," quipped Fred.

"This is hardly the time to joke!" Percy huffed.

"Course it is!"

Nox blinked through the semi-darkness. Frantic wails of denial and grief filled the room. The wall with the stained glass windows was gone and now she could see why: enormous creepers had crushed the wall inwards, bringing it down on the heads of half the celebration. Here and there, people moved amidst the rubble and still bodies. The thick creepers slithered up the walls and across the room, the thorny ancient ropes already having blocked the hole they had made, save for a few small spaces where the snow drifted in on the wind.

There was a sound like snuffling and claws scraping against their surface from the outside, followed by a sound that was not merely inhuman, but like despair and death given body and squeezed through an organ.

"_Inferi_," Luna breathed in her ear.

Nox pulled herself out from a gap under the table, helping Luna out with her. She could make out Percy's outline crouching in the rubble beside Fred, George and Lucius Malfoy. They had cast a shield charm at the last minute, warding off the worst of the explosion. The other half of the room had not been so lucky.

Narcissa lit her wand. Her face and neck were dark with blood.

Fred had a hand on his twins' back, frowning. "You alright, Lugless?"

George grinned. "Still a Saint, Fred. Oy, Perce, watch yourself."

"What did I tell you?" Percy panted, as George helped him pull his leg out from under a pile of rubble. "You haven't seen the forest out there, it's _mad_. We've got to go. Freudenstadt is half an hour away, we can Apparate easily–"

"You can't Apparate from inside the tower." Viktor was easing himself out from under the table with Luna's help. "You can only Apparate from the grounds. That's why Portkeys were arranged for each and every guest." He sat on a lump of wall, while Luna dabbed his bleeding forehead with a corner of her dress. "The only other way out of here is the Floo Network."

"But Nox can't use the Floo," Fred said impatiently.

"Why can't we just Apparate from the grounds and get some help in here?" George enquired, staggering to his feet.

"Slow to the uptake and brawn before brains," Lucius said, sneeringly. "You really are a Weasley. Listen to that, boy. What do you hear?"

The same hollow wailing, like death on the wind, sounded from behind the wall of creepers. This time the majority of the survivors in the hall heard it, too. There was a rising panic. It started as a gentle simmering that turned to alarm, then dread, then terror and all of a sudden everyone in the room was scrambling for the door or the fireplace, shoving and pushing, crying and shouting.

Eldred Worple came stumbling over the wreckage towards them, buttoning up his shirt.

"Sanguini! Sanguini! By thunder, the whole world's gone to pot! Sanguini?" Eldred peered at the silent vampire, thoughtfully. "What's wrong with him? Has he been–"

"He's fine," Percy said shortly. "But _we_ won't be if we don't leave this instant. Lovegood, in front. Fred, George, take the lead – don't argue with me!"

They grinned.

"We weren't."

"Just stick together. You there, boy!" Percy pointed his wand at Nox's bloodied face. "Help Worple with that vampire. We mustn't lose sight of one another, not even for a second, do you understand?"

"What about Draco?" Narcissa shouted, her eyes wild.

"Doubt he was in the room when the wall exploded," said George. "If he's got any sense in that rat head of his, he'll be going the same way we're going."

Nox pulled one of Viktor's arms around her shoulder and followed the twins lead, who were doing everything in their means to calm the massing crowd and herd them safely through the door. It was difficult to see. Her ears were still ringing from the explosion and her right eye was still covered in blood. People were pushing and shoving their way out the door, past a bemused ogre in a purple waistcoat and into the main entrance hall, fleeing through doors in search of a fireplace. Nobody dared go near the main door, if not for any other reason than it was very obvious something was trying to get _in_.

"Duck!" Fred yelled just as a jet of light flew over their heads. "Oy, what'choo think you're doing! Wands away mate!"

"Blimey, people are getting angsty alright," George said grimly, as they emptied into the entrance hall. "Let's get them up the stairs, I've got an idea," he said, letting go of Luna in order to pull the conch, Captain Moody had given him, out of his pocket.

They cast a wary eye toward the main door. There was an audible scuffling and baying of wolves. Every now and then, Nox caught sight of claws scraping at the threshold.

Suddenly, there was a strangled yelp of surprise and Nox turned just in time to see Luna disappear into the crowd, Minos' hand around her mouth. The twins charged after them. Nox tried desperately to keep up, pulling Viktor's arm more tightly around her shoulders, but was distracted by Percy, who was now yelling furiously at two young wizards reaching for the main door.

"You idiots!" Percy cried, pushing his way through the crowd towards them. "Don't open that!"

But the door had already been wrenched apart. There was a brief moment where Nox could see the two men freeze in fear, then raise their wands in defence, but the two wolves that came down on them were faster still, heads descending and twisting at their throats. The streaming crowd grew in ferocity, legs and arms pushing and kicking as far away from the main door as possible. A furious battle commenced, the few braver witches and wizards launching into the fray, trying to hold back the snapping tide, but for every wolf that fell, ten more poured through the doorway. Tongues wagging and hackles raised, they snapped their jaws at every opening in defence, tearing flesh and opening throats.

The twins were out of sight. Nox struggled in vain to push her way through the crowd to where she had seen them last, but Viktor could barely move on his own now. She could only follow the sweeping crowd into the labyrinth of corridors and pray to god they weren't being followed.

Deeper and deeper they moved into the heart of Blackwater Hall, but the yammering and howling of the wolves did not seem to lessen any. At last she found herself down a corridor lined with stone busts of ancient witches and wizards, their grey eyes staring stonily into space. Eldred Worple and the Malfoys were a few paces ahead of her. She caught up to them at a crossroads, where the hall split into four separate corridors, gasping for breath.

"Sanguini!" Eldred said with evident relief, grasping the vampire's arm. "Gracious, I thought we'd lost you back there old friend. What in Helga's name is going on here? Walls exploding, wolves at the door! I do believe reality's gone and got itself mixed up with a nursery rhyme; huff, puff and all that."

Viktor gave a weak laugh. He was half sprawled over Nox's shoulders and his breathing had turned ragged.

"They're just normal wolves, aren't they?" Nox asked breathlessly. "What on earth's attracting them? They…" She paused. Something that the wolf giant, Garm, had said earlier flashed in her mind.

"Who cares what they are or why they're here!" Narcissa hissed, a note of hysteria in her voice. "There is only one thing I care about."

"_Narcissa._"

"He is our son, Lucius!" Narcissa snarled, throwing off her husband's hand on her forearm. "I will not go through this again!"

She turned and rushed down the nearest corridor, her silver robes flaring out behind her. Lucius could only follow after his wife, wand held ready in his hand.

"W-Wait! Mr Malfoy! I say, we really must keep together you know!" Worple called after them, jogging to keep up.

Viktor gripped her shoulder hard. "They should not go that way. They will be trapped…"

"Why didn't you say so before?" Nox snapped, laying him gently on the floor. "Just stay here, I'll be right back. Mr Malfoy! Wait–"

The words were stopped in her throat as a series of bangs echoed down the corridor. Following on the heels of the noise came another, the wail of something not quite human, something not quite wolf, a sound born from the essence of night. Another shout, a strangled cry cut short. She heard Narcissa scream and Lucius holler in the dark; a flash of green illuminated the corridor, and then a moment of silence, followed by a soft panting and the sound of something disturbingly wet.

And then a weight hit her shoulders, tossing her to the ground like a rag-doll, and sunk its teeth into her flesh.

**oOo**

"Who is this Minos, anyway?" Percy was asking impatiently, struggling to keep up with the twins who were belting down the winding passageways. "What in blazes would he want with Luna Lovegood of all people? And do you even know where you're going?"

"Keep your trap shut, Perce!" George grunted. "I'm trying to remember the spell. _Hominimenum_ something…"

Percy frowned. "I've never heard of a spell like that."

"That's 'cause your ears are packed full of Ministry guff and boiled eggs," said Fred. "Nox's got herself lost, too. If anything happens to her, I'll–"

"Who's Nox?" asked Percy.

"The one with Viktor." He looked a bit paler than usual. "Stupid, poxy girl…"

They could hear the wolves scrambling down the corridor behind them, slavering and snapping their jaws at the air. The wolves were not magical creatures, but the Black Forest had somehow made them seem more _real_ than others. More solid. More wolfish. And definitely bigger.

George reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of Stink Pellets, tossing them down the corridor behind. They exploded on hitting the ground, releasing jets of putrid smoke into the air.

"That'll keep the wolves off our scent for a bit," said George. "I think I've got that spell now - _Homenum Invenio Luna!_"

A stream of gold light filtered out the tip of his wand and snaked down the corridor in front of them.

"Excellent! Right, you lot go and find Nox and Viktor. I'll deal with Minos–"

"You barking?" Fred spluttered. "Remember what happened last time we split up, your Holiness?"

Familiar voices up ahead caught their attention.

"You must know a way out of here!" Minos' voice snarled. "I thought you said you read all about this place in the flipping _Quibbler_!"

"I said that Gudrun made it quite vexing to escape," said Luna. "Quite impossible really, like trying to make yourself taller by standing on your head."

George put on an extra burst of speed as he rounded the corner, fist clenched around his wand and elbow arcing back, a well-chosen Hex on his lips.

Surprise turned to fury on Minos' handsome face when George lunged around the bend towards them, followed by Percy and Fred. In one frenzied movement, Minos dragged Luna in front of him and shoved her roughly into George's path. The weight of her body as it hit his sent him reeling. Something fell from her pocket as she flew through the air, smashing on the stone and igniting into green flames that crawled up the walls.

Percy was already giving chase after Minos, sending a flurry of spells after the man's retreating back.

"Crikey…" George groaned. "Not as light as you look, Lu. Been at Mum's mince pies?"

He noticed Fred leaning over them, eyes wide in horror. "Shit…"

George looked down at the body in his arms, frozen against his chest. Luna's own arms were still wrapped tightly around the body of her firedrake. Both were solid gold, surprise eternally etched into their features.

Percy returned, took one look at Luna's body in his brother's arms then said grimly, "I think I've found Draco."

**oOo**

Her left leg felt wet and sticky, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins prevented any pain from registering in her brain. Viktor was barely conscious as they limped through the labyrinth of intertwining passageways. Their escape had been a narrow one. The wolves that had attacked had left their mark on him too, their sharp teeth biting at legs and stomachs and arms, but Nox felt instinctively there was something else gnawing away at his strength.

"So…one way in and one way out, eh?" She chuckled, bolting another door behind her; it wouldn't be long before the wolves fought their way through that one. "Kind of an aesthetic choice by the architect, I gather. Remind me to write a strongly worded letter of complaint to the bureau of dark and gothic towers when we get out of here."

"Yes… in retrospect, rather a glaringly obvious design flaw," said Viktor with a slight wince, digging his nails deeper into her shoulder.

She grinned at him. "You might want to think about relocating, really. Not that this isn't a prime location – half an hour from the shops, two minutes from imminent death…"

She pulled open another door by a crack and tentatively peered through.

"Looks like it's clear here, but we can't outrun them much longer," she said, squeezing them through and bolting the door shut on the other side. They could already hear the teeming, snarling body of wolves behind the previous door.

"We're running out of last minutes."

Viktor gave her a sidelong smile. "There's always time for one more last minute."

Nox stared at him. "Look, Viktor... Did you know what Minos did during the war?" she asked carefully.

"Do you?"

Nox faltered. "Well, no, not exactly. But a 'Snatcher' doesn't exactly sound like the sort of occupation that requires you don a hat and sell ice-cream and inflatable balloons to kiddies down the beach."

"No, I don't suppose it does." His face was troubled as he looked at her sidelong. "He's not a bad person. He has what you might call an …an affliction. Not dissimilar to my own."

Nox hesitated, then said, "Did your wife know what he was?"

"Minos had nothing to do with the death of my wife and child," he told her softly, the corners of his lips lifting in a pained smile. "It was Fenrir Greyback who took them from me."

"But Fenrir was the werewolf in the forest, right? Why would he be here, if not for Minos?"

He held her gaze a moment, his own eyes darkening. "Oh, he's here for Minos, alright. After he found out what Fenrir had done, Minos hunted him down and took his tail. What Fenrir wants is revenge." His breath was coming in ragged gasps now and his heavy eyelids were drooping. "You must forgive my friend for what he has done..."

Then he closed his eyes and slumped over her, breathing lightly. Nox was nearly flattened by the dead weight of him on her shoulders. Pain arced up her leg.

A figure suddenly stumbled into view, shock registering on his face as he saw them. Minos' rich robes were spattered with blood and his golden locks were matted with sweat. But more peculiar was his left hand, un-gloved and shimmering gold.

Nox growled. "_You._"

"What's wrong with him?" Minos croaked weakly, looking horrified at Viktor. "Is he–"

"–Alive, yes. No thanks to you," she replied tetchily. "What have you done with Luna? And Draco Malfoy for that matter!"

"I don't…remember…don't know… They're back there… somewhere," he stuttered, blue eyes darkening as they took in the vampire's bedraggled appearance. "Hell…"

His legs seemed to fall out from under him and he leaned heavily against the wall, head heavy in his hands. A sob wracked his body.

"This is hardly the time for dramatics–" She stopped and listened.

The wolves were growing louder.

She turned her head desperately towards Minos. "Look, you might not mind getting turned into dog-food, but I for one like my arms and legs attached to my body. If you care at all about your friend here, you'll help him. Or at least get off your arse and help yourself!"

A wolf howled. This seemed to rouse Minos. He looked at her then at Viktor, his bright eyes turning hard like granite. He nodded his head firmly.

"You're right." He pulled off the chain of rings and the little leather pouch around his neck, handing both to Nox. "Turn right at the top of that passageway. Your friends will meet you there."

She slipped both items around her neck, then stopped, looking at him in some alarm. He had taken an axe from the wall and now his hands were on the latch of the door she had come through, his jaw locked determinedly.

"I was being ironic!" she yelled, grabbing his arm.

He smiled, coyly. "Love's a bit more than glands, you know. It's more like knowing out of the millions of people in the world, there's only one person you want to have all to yourself."

Then, witha a fleeting look at Viktor, he opened the door and disappeared from sight. She grabbed the door and pulled at it with all the might her skinny arms could muster. The bolt slid shut on the other side, locking her out. She hammered on the door furiously, but no reply came; only the dreadful yammering of the wolves and the crack of an axe as it hit the stone.

With a bitter heart, she heaved Viktor down one corner and round a next. After a few minutes, she heard footsteps running towards them. Her heart lurched, fearfully.

"Nox!" Fred skidding quite literally into her. "Where the hell have you been, you great daft pillock?!"

For a moment, her mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

"Where the hell have _I_ been? Where the hell have _**I**_ been?" she repeated, her features contorting so that she rather resembled a slavering wolf herself. Her throat felt tight and her eyes were stinging. She could only think of Minos behind her and his fate at the wolves' jaws. "I'll bleeding well tell you where I've been, you hot-headed NIT!"

"Lover's spats later, no time for chit-chat!" George panted, his eyebrows and coat tails singed.

Percy did not look much better and was currently trying to bat out the green flames licking up his arms. The passageway they had come from was already ablaze with fire.

"Would you give me a hand here," he grunted.

"It's alright Perce, we always knew you were a flamer," said Fred seriously. "But George's right – no time for idle chat, Noxy. We've got something else to worry about now," he said, jabbing his thumb at the emerald flames.

"Good thing, too," said George briskly. "I was getting a bit bored there for a minute."

George did not stop long enough for Nox to ask why he was carrying two golden statues under his arms. He was already belting down the opposite corridor. All the night was a sudden bedlam of noise and breathless panting as they sped through the labyrinth of twisting hallways and winding staircases, fingers of green flame and the howls of the wolves, hot on their heels.

Viktor, it seemed, had newfound strength and by the time they had reached the top floor, he was barely leaning on Nox at all, but his eyes were now wild as an animal's.

There was an open window here, its view encompassing the snowy pines of the Black Forest and the Bog Barrows, the frozen surface of its swamps shattered by Inferi. George looked down at the columns of wolves moving through the forest towards them, howling and yammering, gold eyes glowing through the snow. And between them moved other creatures: foxes, badgers, Inferi, Pooka. Their numbers seemed to swell like the tide, positioning themselves around the tower, just as the rowan trees had – not to protect the tower from the forest, but to protect the forest from the tower.

"From _Gudrun_…" he said in a low voice, then looked up at the sky, trying to peer through the snow drifts. "He should be here by now."

"Where's Luna?" Nox shouted, looking around at their group in horror. "Don't tell me she's–"

"She's right here." George motioned to the two disturbingly lifelike statues of Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood, glittering gold. "You can thank Minos for that."

The tower was suddenly silent. There were no more barks or screams or flashes of light. They could see the light from the unnatural green fire, but it made no smoke and it did not crackle like normal fires do. It just climbed steadily towards them, licking over the blood-stained flagstones and the still bundles littering the entrance hall.

"Blimey," said Fred quietly. "Wonder how many got away."

Percy swallowed.

"It's my fault," he said wretchedly, and a sob cracked through his throat. He pushed his lopsided horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose then ran his fingers through his singed hair. "I should have got here sooner."

"Don't be a prat, Perce." Fred forced a grinned. "You came, didn't you?"

Percy did not smile. "I thought I'd seen the last of all this."

The sound of a familiar foghorn suddenly broke the silence as Captain Moody's airship, _the Earnest Vice_, loomed into view. An anchor was tossed over the side of the ship as it came to dock by the flaming tower.

"Ahoy down there!" came a voice from above, followed by a ruddy, ring-nosed face over the edge of the ship. "Parties in need of assistance, aye?"

A long rope ladder tumbled over the side of the ship. Percy lumbered forwards to catch it, holding it steady as George, with great difficulty, began to climb, one gold statue under his arm. After George, followed Percy, clinging to rope for dear life, the second statue secured under his arm. Finally, Viktor caught the rope in his hand, and held it steady while Nox pulled herself onto it. The wind caught the sails, threatening to drag the airship from the tower.

"Hurry your arses along down there!" the crewmate hollered from the deck above. "Wind's pickin' up a treat!"

Nox began to climb, Fred drifting carefully alongside her. She tried to think of anything but the fact that all that lay between her and the hard frosty ground was a couple of bits of string and cold air. A hand gripped her shoulder. She turned around to see Viktor looking at her, unsmiling, but with eyes as bright as the moon.

It was a horrible feeling thinking you were about to die. The cold unflinching certainty that someone else was about to die was a hundred times worse.

"I've lost a great deal in my life," he said quietly. His white face exchanged a look with Nox that spoke terrible volumes. "I shouldn't like to lose anything more."

Fred gaped. "_What?_ Are you bonkers? Get on the ship!"

"Minos is dead!" Nox cried in desperation, pulling at his arm. "I'm sorry… it's hard, but, but you can't go throwing away your life–"

Viktor only shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Oh, but I've already had two." He put a hand on her open palm, squeezing it tightly. "There's always time for one more last minute." He looked at Fred. "And one last act of remorse."

Then the dark folds of his cloak billowed around him, his arms and legs collapsing around his body, and out of the confusion an enormous bat flew into the air and towards the searing flames.

A stronger wind caught the sails, tugging the airship fiercely from the tower just as the green flames engulfed it entirely, all traces that Viktor and Minos had ever existed, vanishing along with it.

"Now, haul, you blaggards!" shouted the ruddy-faced crewmate, followed by several voices crying in unison, "_Haul! Haul! Haul!_"

As the rope ladder jerked upwards, Nox opened her hand and stared at the object pressed into her palm. A sliver of glass glistened in the eerie light of the fire. She swallowed thickly, pressing it against her chest.

Percy helped her over the edge of the ship, looking grave through the soot on his face. George was sitting with his ear pressed against one of the gold statues. He looked wrecked. They all did.

"There's a heart-beat," he said finally. "She's not dead. Draco, too. He's still alive."

Nox sat down heavily on the deck and put her head in her hands. After a long moment, she spoke, voice muffled and barely audible behind her hands.

"His parents aren't."

The adrenaline of the night was fading away. Now she felt like retching.

Heavy footsteps struck the deck. They looked up.

Captain Moody was a dark outline against the falling snow. Only the pipe glowed at his scarred lips, its redness rising and sinking with each breath.

He glowered at them through one eye, sniffed, then spat on the deck and said, gruffly, "Ah feel I'm in my right to say I told you so."

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** Man, I SO hope you guys liked that chapter. It was a killer to write. I don't know how it's come off, so critique is vastly appreciated!! And yes, I killed off the Malfoys. But I'm more upset at killing Edward Worple. And Minos. And Viktor! You can decide for yourselves what kind of relationship those two had. Anyways, still lots of things about this casebook to be explained in the next chapter, fear not!

Opened a new TVPD forum here for the fanfic (with notes and stuff) if you want to check it out!

**Looking for More Fic to Read?:** "Fools" by Lyin' – One of the greatest First War stories I have ever read. Wonderful, heart-braking, hilarious, and perfect characterisation of Gideon & Fabian Prewett.


	21. Casebook Closed: Greed & Sloth

**A/N:** Hola! In case you're confused about this chapter's title, I changed the previous title to, 'The Wolves' as it makes much more sense to have this chapter as "**Casebook Closed"**. Many apologies! I can't believe how many incredible reviews I got for the last chapter – as always, your support has meant the world to me guys, so thank you very much.

Man, summer's almost over and I've got uni coming up (I'm terrified XD). Apparently the actress (name?) who plays Hermione is starting at the same university, so that'll be weird. Oh, and it's my birthday on Monday – _REJOICE!_ Anyways, about this chapter – it's a little short, because the original chapter grew too long and so I've cut it in half. Don't be fooled into thinking it's filler – okay, technically it is, but everything that's happened in all the fillers is very important to the overall plot (especially in these two chapters).

* * *

_Wedding fingers are sweet pretty things,  
Bloudie Jack!  
To salute them one eagerly strives,  
When one kneels to propose,  
It's another quelque chose,  
When cut off at the knuckles with knives,  
They are tied up in bunches of fives._

_ There they lie, one, two, three, four!  
Bloudie Jack!  
There lie they, five, six, seven, eight –  
From their state,  
It would seem they were severed of late,  
Bloudie Jack!_

_"Ho! Ho! She is mine!  
This will make up the nine!"_

- Bloudie Jack of Shrewsberrie (from Ingoldsby Legends)

**oOo**

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
Casebook Closed: Greed and Sloth

**oOo**

It was getting late. In fact, it was getting so late it was getting early. Fred imagined he could still see the distant flicker of the flames that had engulfed Blackwater Hall; emerald green like the Unforgivable that had once struck Tonks in the heart and the thin spidery writing on the wall at Weasley Manor – the house, he knew, that Salazar Slytherin had built.

The line of his mouth moved into a sardonic grin. Despite the overwhelming feeling of gratitude for an escape that had seemed impossible, it sometimes felt like the war had never ended. Fred tried not to think about how many others had escaped Blackwater Hall with their lives.

George's eyes had turned to flint and his jaw was set in a grim line as he examined the gold statue of Luna Lovegood, Percy and Captain Moody peering darkly over his shoulder. Fred watched his twin work, casting one failed spell after another. It was a harsh reminder of the war, of the nights when they'd run around half-cocked, following the news of the last Death Eater attack or Snatcher sightings. Only once had they run into a crowd of Voldemort's hooded underdogs. It had been difficult, near impossible, to know where Bellatrix Lestrange or Antonin Dolohov would strike next, but you always knew where they'd been by the bits of their victims they left behind.

Their mother never knew what he and George had seen, and they wanted it that way, because no one should ever find an ex-classmate strewn across the floor of their own flat, Towler near unrecognisable had it not been for the bit of face they'd discovered by the fireplace, or discover Patricia Stimpson's entire family, only minutes after it had happened, reduced to a bloody stain on the floor, or to see a witch, wandless and crying for help, burned alive in Diagon Alley. As the war drew on and the casualties rose, their mother had complained they were looking too thin, too gaunt. She'd probably been right. It was hard to keep anything down after a patrol.

Those nights had been long and hard, and little by little Fred began to see the war take its toll on George's face. There was something always lurking behind his eyes, even when he smiled – no, especially when he smiled; something grim, like dread, for they both knew their luck was no longer infallible – one slash of Snape's wand had proven just that.

And now, five years on, here they were again, surrounded by death and the familiar flash of green light, only now there was Nox involved and she wasn't a witch or a Squib, and she owed them no loyalty. She was just a daft Muggle; one who had the natural rhythm of a traffic accident.

Fred hovered unsurely above her, watching the dark blood running down her calve and forming a little black pool on the deck of _The Earnest Vice_. She was resting her head between her knees; for some reason it made him uneasy and a little angry that he could not see her face.

He wasn't a man who often felt guilt (more often people felt guilty on his behalf), and the laws of space, time and physics didn't really relate to ghosts. Technically, he wasn't apart of them, they moved along quite well without ever noticing he existed, or not existed as it were. He could Apparate long distances, step through steel doors and access the deepest vaults in Gringotts bank if he so pleased. Why, then, could he not take a single step towards her?

"My dad used to say there's no such thing as coincidence," she said suddenly. "Wrote whole books on the theory. There was nothing he believed in more firmly; that all decisions and actions in this world are interconnected in some way and therefore there is no coincidence, only inevitability. I always thought it was nonsense and it still seems, well, _farfetched_. But-"

"-I don't believe in all that predetermination stuff. It's a load of bull," Fred said, firmly. "How boring would life be if everything you did was down to the decision of a bunch of Fates?"

"No," Nox shook her head, "it's not Fate. Not exactly. More like cause and effect. Like a rolling rock. Something so small as that can effect numerous things, and those things in turn affect other things and so on. Once a rock starts to roll, it's very hard to stop. It just gets faster and faster until it reaches the end of the road."

"Huh. Very perspicacious of you, but your making my eyes water," said Fred, shaking his head. He knelt beside her. "Sure you haven't gone and done your nut in?"

Nox rubbed the back of her hand against her nose, sniffing wetly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a pained smile. Fred suddenly realised she had been crying. He shifted edgily on the balls of his feet. He did not like crying women, especially when they did that thing with their bottom lip so that it wobbled like a plate of jelly. They made him uncomfortable at the best of times, but the idea that Nox had been crying was a bit of a shock. Normally when she got upset, she swore and smoked a lot, or chucked something through him, like George for example. Crying was a turn for the books.

"It just makes me wonder what all this is leading up to and how much of what we do is only chance. How can any of what happened be mere …coincidence?" She looked at him, all puffy red eyes and running nose. "You remember what Hati told us about the importance of the promise you make with your pinkie and ring fingers?"

She pulled off the string pouch that had been hanging around her neck and emptied the contents onto the deck. Nine shrivelled objects, like mini sausage links, fell out, followed by the dull _clunk_ of a glass shard.

"Ring fingers," she said, her tone grim. "These belonged to Minos. He wore the wedding rings around his neck on a chain. I suppose he gave these to me because he wanted us to know what he'd done. Some sort of repentance for his crimes-"

"-Before the fat lady sang her bit and croaked? Bit late for that." Fred let a low sound of disgust rise from his throat as he looked at the nine severed fingers. "That big bag of puss. And I thought Minos seemed alright. What do you think happened to the rest of his beloved brides? They must be missing those."

Nox cast a glance at the two solid statues of Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy, gleaming under the ship's dribbly lamplight. "I guess it doesn't take a great deal of imagination."

Fred's thick silver eyebrows pulled closer in deep thought. "Come to think of it, Eldred Worple mentioned something about bits of people turning up around Freudenstadt, all solid gold." He sighed, running fingers through his hair. "You reckon Vik knew what Minos'd been up to?"

"Of course he did," Nox said, calmly. "But he did not stop it. He was too afraid; afraid for himself and afraid of what would happen to his friend. But like Luna said, Viktor's not a coward, not at heart. Something was affecting his judgement, his thinking. Something that made him abandon V.A.M.P. and stopped him from warning anyone of the danger Blackwater Hall was in." She stretched out a hand towards him, opening the palm face up. In the middle of it, scratched and glinting in the soft lamplight, was a second glass shard. "Something like this."

"Blimey, _two?_" he spluttered, eyes moving between the glass shard in her palm and the one that had fallen from Minos' leather pouch alongside the severed fingers.

Nox nodded, solemnly. "Greed and Sloth."

For a moment, Fred could only stand in stunned silence, but the second passed quickly as nothing could keep Fred stunned or silent for long. "Hold on, Viktor is…_was_ a vampire. My curse never mentioned anyone other than Muggles being affected by these shards."

"Yes, but I don't think Viktor was a wizard before he was bitten. You said most witches and wizards go to Hogwarts for schooling, but Viktor attended Cambridge with Minos, a Muggle University, so perhaps this shard pierced him before he had his vampire encounter."

Fred mulled this information over, remembering his conversation with Viktor that evening. He suddenly realised how nice it had been confiding in someone like Viktor who knew about his curse. He and George had had no outside help or wise mentor like Dumbledore to go to for help, and benevolent Gods or Faerie Godmothers only ever took an interest in tragic heroes, like Harry. Real people always got the raw deal.

"Guess it explains what Viktor meant about 'still having a choice for now'," he said, scratching his chin idly. "Must've been his vamp's blood. Probably made him aware of the shard he had and allowed him to fight off its effect a little longer than the others could. He still had his own mind, for the most part."

Nox cast her eyes down and nodded. Her mind kept turning back to Viktor's last words and Luna's pale face under the rubble at Blackwater Hall. Now one was dead and the other's life was hanging in the balance. Her shoulders sagged. Every part of her ached, but worse than any physical damage was the idea that she could lose Luna, too.

Fred eyed the wound on her leg.

"You're hurt," he stated, frowning.

"It's only a bite."

Fred's eyes turned hard. "From _what_? Nox, an Inferi bite will-"

"A _wolf_ bite," she corrected, calmly. "I've received worse injuries from George's cooking, you know."

"His cooking almost never takes a bite out of you," he argued shortly, then bent down and, to her surprise, wrapped his hands around her sticky calve. There was a sharp hiss as she sucked in air, wincing at the sting of his icy cold hands against the open wound. "Might bring down the inflammation a bit. George'll dress it once he's done with Luna."

Nox couldn't help smiling at the look of intense concentration on Fred's face. It made her realise how fond she was of him around; after all, you get used to people. "That look doesn't suit you. Don't tell me you were actually _worried_. I might lose respect for you."

Fred snorted. "If you get yourself killed, it's going to be difficult for us to keep working together. Maimed and disfigured on the other hand, that we can deal with. After all, I'm handsome enough for the both of us."

"Hmm. Cheers for your concern."

Nox cast another glance at Luna and Draco; her fiftieth in the last thirty seconds. George was leaning back on his haunches in front of them, looking increasingly more frustrated. She wrung her hands. "You can turn her back, can't you?"

"Mmm."

It wasn't an answer, but then he didn't have one to give. This was serious magic and while he and George were quite clued up on Charms and Transfiguration, Luna and Draco's predicament went way beyond their own capabilities.

"Wasn't exactly how I imagined bringing in the New Year. Definitely less explosions when I pictured the scene. How do you feel now?"

"Better. Now all I want to do is be sick."

Fred chuckled. "Don't do that again. Moody'll boot us off his ship for sure."

"ALL RIGHT!" the Captain suddenly hollered, in a voice that could grate cheese and grill it. "Who's not dead? Sound off!"

"Ah'm still here, Cap'n!" a ruddy-faced man with a ring through his nose, replied cheerfully.

"Hmm. Pity. Well, there's always next time ah suppose." Captain Moody hovered over Fred and Nox, a grim looking figure in his fisherman's coat and gnarled lobster-claw hand. "And what about you two, eh?"

Fred shrugged and waved a transparent hand in the air. "Felt better."

"Thank you for coming to our rescue, Captain Moody," Nox said, getting stiffly to her feet.

"Hpmh. You were lucky," he grunted. "We were back in London t'day. Only got to you in time because some shady bloke in the pub tipped us off about things in the Black Forest lookin' a might iffy." Captain Moody scratched his dirty bristled chin, then spat on the deck with a grunt. "That tower ain't never been right. Some say that's where the Snow-witch lived, the Dark Majesty of magic and all that palaver. Mind you, most folks will say anything after a few pints."

Fred and Nox exchanged a wary look. The silver dagger Viktor had given them was poking out George's blood-stained jacket.

"You're brothers aren't having much luck with turning your friends back to normal, but that's no surprise. That's a curse from Pendragon's Pear tree that's done that. Folks call it the Midas Touch. Strong magic. Aye. You'll be needing Nam's help I think," the Captain said quietly, half to himself. "Flapper! Set a course for the Soul Islands!"

The nose-ringed young man turned pale. "Soul islands? B-But, Cap'n! We can't take-"

"Set course or ah'll remove that ring of yours and stick it in a less family-friendly place!"

"Aye, Cap'n," said Flapper grudgingly, then added as a muttered afterthought, "_yeh jumped up son of a hag..._"

"AH HEARD THAT YEH GREAT GRUNGE HAIRED PILLOCK!" Captain Moody hollered, sending a shower of fiery sparks towards the man's backside.

"Soul Islands?" George repeated, wiping his sweaty brow tiredly. His wand was still in hand and smoking faintly. "Why's that sound familiar?"

"I'll tell you why!" Percy snapped, stomping across the deck towards Captain Moody, his thin face livid with rage. "I knew I recognised you. You were in the _Glass Eye Inn_ earlier this evening. Don't try to deny it! The Ministry is inundated with owls every day over illegal trading and smuggling in the vicinity of the Soul Islands. Why, just last week I had to deal with a particularly vexing report on a delivery of tampered pewter cauldrons." He jabbed one long, bony finger in the Captain's chest and scowled. "You're _pirates_."

There was a collective hush over the ship as all eyes turned to watch in amazement the act of sheer bravery, (or stupidity; nobody seemed sure) on Percy's part. Fred and George crossed their hearts and put their hands together in mock prayer.

The Captain leered. "Oh, aye? That so, _wee man?_"

Percy was tall, but what height the Captain lacked his broad shoulders, beady eye and overall presence certainly made up for it, and gave one the impression that causing an inconvenience for him might be as wise as kicking a wasp nest and sticking around to see what happened next.

"Say, for arguments sake, we are," Moody conceded, in a tone that was far too pleasant for it not to mean terminal and definitive retribution was about to be dished out Percy's way. "Why then would we let a skinny, wee, pencil-pushing, _twit_ put us out of business when we could just as easy drop him overboard or play Hangman Jack? Ah'm sure the lads would like a bit o' entertainment this New Year, seein' as all we've done so far is fly around savin' certain _respectable_, law-abidin' arses from havin' their _THROATS TORN OUT_."

"I will _not_ be intimidated!" Percy spat.

"He won't, you know," Fred nodded. "We've tried."

"That ego of his is like an impenetrable shield," George added.

"Although he _can_ be egged, tortured and dangled from, oh, say any great height."

Percy ignored them, clenching his teeth and glowering until his spectacles slipped down his long nose. "Your impertinent disregard for the law will no longer be stood for, regardless of your aid with our situation tonight."

The Captain smiled a horrible crooked smile that lit his one, visible, bleary eye; the kind of look a butcher gives his lambs. "Ah was hopin' you'd say that. Tuba."

There was a blur as a spell shot through the air faster than the eye could follow, striking Percy's throat dead centre. George leapt up, throwing his wand arm out towards the attacker, but to his surprise the entire crew had erupted in hysterics.

"Good 'un, Tuba! Got 'im right in the throat!" Flapper yelled, doubled over the wheel of the ship with laughter.

"What have you done to him?" Nox cried, catching Percy around the waist, who was clutching his throat and gasping for breath like a fish out of water. "He can't breathe!"

George thrust his wand in Moody's face, Fred looking mulish at his side.

"Oi, you better tell us what you've done to our brother!"

"We understand that Percy can be an insufferable, unbearable, know-it-all, prat better than anyone-"

"-But the privilege of taking him down a notch belongs to me and Fred only, got that?!"

"Shh!" Nox hissed, turning Percy around to face her. "He's trying to say some-" She stopped mid-sentence and stared at the red face in front of her, a wave of uncomfortable familiarity washing over her.

Percy himself was squinting through his lopsided horn-rimmed glasses, a look of remembrance on his thin face as he peered carefully back at her, but when he spoke all that came out was, "_Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. That's the way the money goes –_" Percy gasped, a look of horror creeping over his face. He opened his mouth again. "_POP goes the weasel!_" His hand clamped firmly over his mouth and he spun towards Moody furiously, pointing his wand and trying a spell. "_Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John!_ _ARGH!_"

Now the entire crew, with the addition of Fred and George, were clutching their stomachs and howling with laughter. Nox coughed into her own hand, having at least the grace to blush.

"Tuba's got a penchant for casting good musical Charms and curses," Flapper explained, wiping his streaming eyes on the back of his filthy striped shirt.

The crewman in question, Tuba – a large, muscular man with sharp, intelligent eyes as dark as his skin, a map of the world tattooed across his bare back and, for one reason or another, a squirrel perched on his shoulder – handed Percy a mug full of something hot and steaming (with the obligatory nameless object floating on top that may or may not have been an olive). "The spell does sonnets too and the occasional Poe or Shakespeare quotation. Don't worry, it will wear off in ten hours, friend. Until then, keep your throat moist."

"_Ring around the roses,_" Percy grumbled, accepting the drink grudgingly.

"Why's he called Tuba, then?" George muttered to Flapper.

"Mind like a poet, but he can't half sing bad. Only Moody knows his real name, so we call him Tuba," said Flapper, then reached out a grubby hand first to George, then Nox, leaving their palms feeling slick with grease. "Jack the Flapper, pleased to meet yeh. Here, I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew. Yeh already know the Cap'n – most folks who know him call him Fishhook."

"Because of his hand?" asked George.

"What? Naw. He just loves fishin'. Him up there in the Crow's Nest is Wong Chao Peeker." He jabbed a grubby thumb skywards.

Nox looked up and instantly wished she hadn't. Two intensely white eyes were staring down at her from the gloomy darkness at the top of the mast. They could hear a heavily accented voice, chattering incessantly.

"Wong Chao peeks, but no one sees him. He is spy, sly like cat. Servant to ze mistress of the night!_ Je suis les yeux de la lune, l'ombre derrière des ombres; aucun peloton villainous n'obtiendra après ma montre, mwahahahaha!_"

"Ah wouldn't ask too much about him," Flapper said, carefully. "He's…complicated."

"Don't worry," said Fred.

"We weren't gonna," said George. "How about old pink-eye over there..."

A tall, bony man was hunched by the side of the ship, bloodshot eyes watching them over a nose that made a parrot's beak seem not so beaky. His pale skin, every square inch of it pierced with nails and silver hoops, had an almost translucent quality about it so that he might have looked at home amongst a gaggle of ghosts. Whatever he was, he wasn't quite human, (although, what he was chewing on might have been).

Nox tried not to gawp. "Who's he when he's at home, do you think?"

"'The Nailer'."Fred grimaced. "I've read about him in _The Prophet_."

"Yeah, that's The Nailer by the looks of him… _It_," George corrected himself. "Heard he nailed some poor old codger's ears to his ankles just for bumping into him down Knockturn Alley."

Fred smirked. "Bet his old pops regrets giving him his first lesson in carpentry."

"Too right he did," Flapper quietly said behind them. "'Specially after his son nailed him to the ceiling."

"Delightful." Nox felt her eyebrows were incapable of climbing any further up her forehead. "Wonder what he does for hobbies."

Fred beamed. "Well I've heard -"

"It was a rhetorical question."

"So are you Moody's first mate?" George asked.

Flapper shook his head. "Nah, that'd be Cliff."

Nox and the twins looked around the snowy deck of the ship for the sixth crew member.

"Where is he?" said Fred. "Down below?"

"No, he's right in front of yeh."

George stared at the empty space. "Where?"

"_There._" Flapper pointed at the wheel of the ship where a small bonsai tree sat, its tiny branches heavy with the drifting snow. "Cliff Bonsai, the first mate."

The twins snorted with laughter.

"You what?"

"You're bleeding mental, mate."

Flapper wagged a finger, warningly. "Watch what you say about Cliff – he dun' like it when people talk bad about him."

"It's a _bonsai_," said Nox patiently. "It doesn't think, it only-"

"Makes like a tree and _leaves?_" the twins quipped, smirking devilishly.

She put a hand to her forehead and sighed. This was just typical in a world of magic that held too much fluffy thinking and irrationality. When you got fluffy thinking, you got fluffy people who gave themselves names like Fishhook and The Flapper (what on earth did that _mean_ anyway?), and produced social miscreants who took jobs as sky-pirates or turned you to gold because they'd read one too many Grimms' fairytales.

One day she would listen to that warning voice in the back her head, which insisted that such things simply did not exist; the rational mind would not allow it.

One day – she was sure of it.

**oOo**

It was seven in the morning, a time when most people in Britain were trying to forget the night before, unless they were still passed out in a pool of something they'd regret a couple of hours later. However, _The Earnest Vice_ was drifting far from home through stony clouds above the sea. The crisp snow had turned to hail, then to sleet and finally to a miserable, unrelenting drizzle that had everything and everyone onboard soaked within seconds. If someone had told George skin was waterproof, he would have hit them.

He never knew he could feel this exhausted, the last of his adrenaline having long since been used up, but he couldn't sleep, not when Luna was frozen solid, shock eternally etched in her round gold eyes. George sighed and leaned his head against her chest, listening to the soft, reassuring thump of her heartbeat. He felt responsible for her; for what had happened to her. What if he couldn't turn her back? The horrible reality that question evoked made him sick. He knew Fred would have snorted at this and said 'couldn't' wasn't in their vocabulary, but George could only imagine the look on Xenophilius's face. Xenophilius had already lost his wife; George remembered his parents taking Bill and Charlie to the funeral. Luna was all her father had left, his most important person, just as Fred was George's. He knew what losing that person was like.

But worse than that was the idea that _he'd_ never see her again, never hear her ask about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks or Ninny-Nasled whatcha-ma-call-its. Her innocence and blatant disregard for the impossible grew on you after a while.

"Here."

George opened his eyes to find a bag of something dark and gloopy shoved under his nose. Flapper grinned.

"Ah got us some breakfast in London before we left. Help yerself. Found it just sitting outside on a bundle of rags. Somethin' about donations fer the poor 'n needy. That's us, innit? Anyways, try out this French thing – foy grass and Con …Con… Feet? …_Whit?_"

"Foi Gras and Confite de Vin," Tuba corrected, looming behind him. "French delicacy."

"Huh…" Flapper chewed thoughtfully then said, "Dun' half make yeh fart."

"_Quiet_," Captain Moody said, in a low whisper. "We're getting close."

George rubbed the sleep from his eyes and moved to join Fred and Nox at the bow of the ship. They had been losing altitude for a while now, but it was hard to tell how far above the water they were. George could smell the salt in the air and a thick sea fog was beginning to tumble over them, coiling around the dribbly lamplight and through the ship's sails. The pixies along the port and starboard wings had stopped all movement and were staring rigidly ahead, their yellow eyes wide.

"_Capitan!_" Wong Chao Peeker shouted down from the crow's nest. "_We're in ze graveyard…_"

"Good. We should be approximately two 'undred and fifty yards from the skull then. Get ready to drop anchor." Captain Moody paused, then added, "And load the canons."

"What's the graveyard?" said Nox, straining to see through the thick mist.

"Shipping graveyard." The Captain's eye narrowed, then he dropped his voice and said, "All the souls of dead ships and drowned sailors who don't cross over wind up here. Most of them are harmless enough, but the ones that keep a grudge – the _Vengefuls_ – well, they aren't so kind to ships like mine."

"Ghost ships?" Fred exclaimed. "_Brilliant._"

"_Wheesht!_" Moody snapped. "There's more in these waters than Ghost ships, Weasley; things that don't have the manners to warn yeh with a howl or cry, or wait for you to scream; they just take you down into the dark and the cold where there's no escapin' or crossing over, not from these waters. Get caught by one of them and you'll be beggin' for the Grawny Man."

"So, not a place you want to come picnicking, then," George commented, brightly.

A ship's bell was ringing in the near distance. There was a creaking of old wood and the smell of rotten fish hung heavy in the air; at least George hoped it was fish. Occasionally, the fog would clear and he could see that their ship was now drifting twenty feet above sea level. Broken masts and rudders bobbed in the inky black waters below, having lost their lives to battles or storms, and here and there a pallid face stared lifelessly out of the water.

The sound of Flapper munching happily broke the eerie silence. "Chicken wing?"

Nox turned an unpleasant shade of omelette.

The fog closed around them once more, the ship graveyard lost to sight. Suddenly, the Captain removed his hood, replacing it with an old tricorn hat atop his grizzled head, muttered grimly, "Almost there," and the fog lifted like a curtain to reveal an enormous skull the size of a small mountain, rising out of the ocean depths and blackly outlined against the dark morning. It grinned at their approach, but it was not a welcoming smile, although the sign nailed across the empty right eye socket beside the half-rotten body of a very ex-wizard, did read, 'WELKOME ALL YE WHO ENTERE'.

"Gotta hand it to them," Fred grinned, "they win points for originality."

"Looks like a happy sort of chap," George added, as _The Earnest Vice_ disappeared into the skull's dark eye socket. "Bet he knows how to get ahead in life."

"Hmph. _The big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh,_" Percy said, with an added roll of his eyes to emphasise his extreme disapproval with their situation.

"A giant, you think?" asked Fred, looking upwards as the ship drifted through the inside of the skull. He wondered vaguely what giant's brains looked like, if indeed they were equipped with any.

Tuba's voice rumbled like thunder inside the cavernous skull. "They say this is what remains of the great giant Ymir."

Nox whistled, appreciatively. "I've heard of him. Scandinavian mythology, right? Or, well, I suppose it's more like Scandinavian _history_. I wonder what killed him."

George grinned. "Maybe he wasn't headstrong enough."

She drew him a withering look. "Are you done with the puns yet?"

"Nope. Gotta head full of them right here."

Dull light was filtering in through a large hole in the back of the giant's skull.

Fred smirked. "Well, now we know what killed him."

When the ship left Ymir's skull, they found themselves far above a string of small islands unfurling beneath them – the infamous Soul Islands. Lower and lower the ship flew, spiralling around the closest island until they could make out hard grey mountains, frozen lakes and finally the signs of civilisation.

The city that spread out beneath them was indescribable, though many journalists had tried, Gilderoy Lockhart the most famous amongst them, who wrote, 'the city is as colourful as a bruise, as fragrant as an old sock on a hot summer's day and as bustling as a dead corpse smeared with honey on an ant hill.' The city was built around the cone of a mountain, its streets filled with strange music and the sort of witches and wizards who were square, hard and generally bad for your health. There were shops that would appear in order to supply some wandering blue-eyed hero with the object of their destiny – like magical swords or harps that sent you to sleep for a thousand years. Fred and George were pointing excitedly at two flaming hoops close to the open bay, where several witches and wizards were passing an iron ball back and forth on the back of brooms; the remains of the previous game was being swept off pitch.

"It's brilliant!" the twins laughed. "It's fantastic!"

The Captain snorted. "It's Scrum."

"Scrum?" they blurted out, blinking back their surprise. "_Scrum?_"

"A secret pirate's cove sitting in the crux of space and time, and you call it 'Scrum'?" Fred exclaimed.

"Maybe Tortuga or Skull Island or something fittingly nautical," said George, "but come off it; _Scrum?_"

"Do I LOOK like a bleeding poet?" the Captain snapped. "It's **Scrum.** Take it or leave it."

"I'd rather leave it," Nox muttered, Percy nodding in agreement, his long nose clasped between an equally long thumb and forefinger in an attempt to block out the rising stench. Apparently Scrum did not believe in sewage systems.

At last they landed at the docks amidst a myriad of ships all shapes and sizes. Nox had never had a head for geography, but she had a very strong feeling that Scrum wasn't locatable on any known maps. Of course, such flighty fantasies as mysterious islands that rolled in and out with the mist did not exist. Being a realist, Nox was quite certain of that. Scrum was a mere piece of undigested cheese or perhaps the manifestation of the shock she had suffered, given the previous night's events. Still, against all rational considerations, Nox pulled herself over the edge of the ship and onto the ramp leading onto the pier.

'_If it is a figment of my imagination'_, she reasoned, _'I might as well take it seriously.'_

After all, there were questions needing answered and her intuition told her this Nam was the one to answer them. In any case, Draco and Luna were counting on it.

**oOo**

* * *

Oof. I don't know if I managed to pull this off or not, but I just fell in love with the idea of Mad-Eye Moody having a grim 'n grizzly pirate for a brother (full name, Captain Allardyce "Fishhook" Moody) who leads this rag-tag group of pitiful pirates, (whose arses have been saved by Bill more times than I care to imagine). I really hope you guys liked it! Please let me know what you think, especially where the dialogue's concerned. Dialogue always drives me nuts XD

**HT:** Thank you for the review, mate! In answer to your ? it was Nox who was attacked/bitten. Nobody knows exactly what happened to the Malfoys, mwahaha!  
**  
Stark40763:** Much love for the review! And yes, you're spot on with the unrequited love between Viktor and Minos. I'll probably write their story down someday, as I'm really fond of them (despite Minos being a total arsewipe XD).

**Kitty-hiime:** Thank you for the loverly long review! I always love your critique, you keep me on the straight and narrow mate! Yes, JKR stated in a recent interview that Draco marries Astoria Greengrass, sister to Slytherin Daphne Greengrass. I kind of like that he marries an unknown character rather than, say, Pansy for example. Leaves more up to imagination. Oof, I had to rewrite Viktor's explanation at least a dozen times - I'm still not entirely happy with it XD And yes, sad to say the twins are rubbing off on Nox a bit. It's my feeble attempt at developing her character lol!

**Thanks for reading guys! : D Next time I post, I'll officially be a year older (sob)  
**


	22. Ditchwater Nam

**A/N:** Woot! I'm glad I got this chapter out, because I don't know when I'll be able to update next as I'm moving across the country for university on Sunday (I'm terrified, wish me luck!). Thank you so much for the review! I'm very happy to hear you like Captain Moody and his band of scallywags lol XD I really hope you like this chapter too, as it contains too of the most important scenes in the story (namely Fred and Nox's divinations - I've been dying to write these scenes for months!!).

**Kae:** Thank you! Aw, SwissMiss is such a lovely person. She's helped me with my grammar etc. a few times and was very kind in promoting this fic. I'm very happy to hear you're enjoying the story so far (and tickled pink that you like Nox lol). No, you're absolutely right - I totally botched up Hermione and Ginny's pregnancies. I think, though I'm not sure, Ginny's had her first baby and Hermione's just pregnant, but don't quote me on that - I'll have to do the math and sort it all out XD Anyways, cheers and huzzah for Re-Fredding!

Hope you enjoy!!

* * *

_Portobello road, Portobello road,__  
Street where the riches of ages are stowed.__  
Anything and everything a chap can unload,  
__Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.  
You'll find what you want in the Portobello road…_

- Bedknobs and Broomsticks

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**  
Ditchwater Nam

**oOo**

An unnatural chilly mist pressed itself around the ruins of Blackwater Hall. The heavy snow had ceased falling and the thick drifts left lying did little to mask the tower's smouldering wreckage where, deep below, could be heard the sounds of crying and the wails of the sorry few still trapped in the dark. The crooked goblin danced above their heads, clicking his tongue and cackling a wicked a song.

"_Woe, woe, beneath the snow – Your heart beats brave, but you're ripe for the grave!_" He paused to press his ear against the snow; a child's voice was sobbing not too far beneath him. He smiled. "Now, now, stop your bitter tears down there. Just think; all this snow and all this rubble can't be too stable. Cry any louder and you'll bring it all down on top of that pretty little head of yours. What a lingering and unpleasant death that would be." He drew the tip of his tongue across the sharpened points of his front teeth. "Perhaps luck will be with you and the Ministry will arrive; perhaps even the great Harry Potter himself!" His withered lips drew back over his teeth in a wicked leer. "Perhaps. But I do not think so. I think, perhaps, I will come down there and help you myself."

Then, suddenly, something caught the goblin's eye, reflecting the pale moonlight through the freezing mist. It was a small rectangular object, silver and emblazoned with a skeletal figure holding a scythe. A Muggle's lighter. For some reason the snow had not touched it. It lay in the middle of a frozen pond, the skeletal figure grinning cheerfully back at him.

Red Cap squatted beside it, picking at his teeth and extracting a small fingernail that had been lodged there. "Ah. So that's where the green fire came from, eh? Curiouser and curiouser. I wonder…"

His long, withered fingers reached towards the silver gadget, but before he could grasp it the lighter faded into nothingness with a faint _pop_. The goblin grimaced.

"_No, no, no NO!_" Bellatrix's voice had risen to a scream when her ghostly figure appeared through the rubble, floating briskly towards the goblin, her silver face turning opaque with barely contained rage. "I can't find Cissy anywhere, or that treacherous husband of her's! I told you they were not dead!"

"That is what happens when you put paid to fate, Bella. Besides, I think it will take much more than Inferi to kill the woman who betrayed the Dark Lord." Red Cap sprang from his perch, leaping onto a balustrade laid bare from the tower's collapse and rendered even more spectral by the fallen snow that now laced its edges. "She has something to protect that you could never understand with your frostbitten heart. Take this man, for example." And the goblin's wiry arms shot into the snow with remarkable speed, finding purchase on an arm just below the elbow and dragging it above the snow for the ghost to see. The pale flesh in his hands was torn and ragged. "Minos, I believe his name was. Such a pleasant name for a man of all measure of sins. He was very close to the vampire of this tower you know. Oooh_, very close._" He grinned at the ghost unpleasantly. "Gave his life for that bat, I'll wager. That is something you'll never understand. All you know is obsession, my Bella. That's why you stayed behind."

Bellatrix's black-rimmed eyes hardened like stone. "Do not pretend to know me or what drives my will so well, you ignorant little Halfling! Where exactly were you when the Dark Lord waged his Great War? Did you fight like I did? Did you _lose_ what _I_ did?!" she shouted furiously, her translucent chest rising and falling rapidly, but after a moment she seemed to regain her composure and forced her thin slit of a mouth into a wary smile. "Have you got them?"

"One minute. Patience is a virtue, but seeing as you lack so many of those, I wouldn't worry your pretty head about that one too much." The goblin's hands reached back into the snow until his long fingers found the object of his night's hunt. There was a sickening crunch. Minos's dark blood spattered the snow. Red Cap raised a fistful of teeth to Bellatrix's face.

She sneered. "I still don't get it. Why teeth?"

"Ohh, there's old magic in teeth. Real dawn of time stuff. But I wouldn't expect you to comprehend the deep magic of something so small, Bella."

"They're only teeth," she snarled. "Everybody has them."

The goblin sprang from the balustrade, leaping frog-like to land in front of Bellatrix.

"Yes, but think, Bella, _think!_" he snapped, and his hand shook the fistful of teeth in front of her glowering face. "Why do teeth take on such a prominent role in the traditions of every culture across the world? Why do we ask an exchange for our teeth – a piece of silver, a feather, a nut and bolt –? Why do we then bury them in the garden with the earth and the worms, or deep in the foundations of our houses?" With a snap of his fingers, the goblin produced a small brown pouch out of thin air. He emptied the contents of his hand into the open bag, then stuffed it safely beneath his grimy cap. "To one who knows how, the possession of a tooth means the possession of that person's soul."

Bellatrix let out a noise of contempt and folded her arms smartly across her chest, making it very obvious that she despised every second of having to listen to a lecture from the wiry, shrunken creature before her. "If you're looking to take control of some stupid Muggles, just use the Imperius-"

"_NO!_" the goblin shrieked, lashing violently at the snow, and in his sudden frenzy Bellatrix glimpsed the true wickedness of his nature. Red Cap seemed to realise this too, for he quickly made a noticeable effort to calm himself down, his silky smile fixing into place. "_No._ The Imperius Curse merely takes control of a being's mind. It does not control their soul. Don't underestimate the superstitions humans have. Muggles may have separated themselves from our world, but there will always be an underlying sense that they are not the only creatures here. Traditions are like codes, passed down from generation to generation, that serve to protect them from things they can no longer see or understand. By offering a coin in exchange for a tooth or burying it in the earth as they bury their dead, they bind the tooth from further harm and so protect their soul."

She hesitated a fraction. "If that's all true, then why are we collecting them? What possible use could a bag of souls have to our great cause?"

"Simple, Bella," Red Cap grinned and tapped his long nose. "To break the barrier around the house that Slytherin built."

There was a scuffling in the snow close to the border of the Black Forest. A figure lumbered out of the dark towards them, the bleary eyes in his whiskered face darting between the ghost and the Goblin.

"Bellatrix? That you? Heh. Well, well. How the mighty have fallen. You look good," said Greyback, with the tiniest note of amused satisfaction in his rasping voice. "I heard you was on the run, but I didn't think I'd find you all the way out here with a half bag of bones."

Bellatrix looked incensed, but the goblin merely smiled and said politely, "Red Cap, if you please."

The werewolf's narrow eyes widened a little in surprise. "Red Cap, is it? From the Goblin line that slaughtered Gryffindor?" he rasped. "Is that the same cap –?"

"The very same," the goblin inclined his head, "soaked in the blood of the great Godric Gryffindor a thousand years ago."

"Never mind all that!" snapped Bellatrix. "What are you doing here? Aren't you that filthy scavenger of a werewolf–?"

"Hold your tongue, woman," roared Greyback, baring rows of sharp brown teeth. "You can't talk to me like that anymore. You ain't the Dark Lord's right hand now; you hold authority over no one but the _worms_. I came here on business – dealing out a bit of retribution to the bastard who cut off my tail, see – but it seems I got here a might too late." He looked around at the rubble. "What made the tower fall? It's been around longer than Hogwarts, hasn't it?"

"The Black Forest," answered Red Cap, feeling it somehow prudent to leave out the mysterious green fire. "It's been working its roots under the tower for a while now. And the wolves were no great supported of it either. Gudrun was their greatest enemy, after all."

"Bloody wolves. Rip every one of their throats out if I could," growled Greyback. "They've been riled up for months, too. That Garm's been howling his head off for weeks. Took a swipe at me yesterday morning. What's got them on the run?"

"You of all creatures should know, beast," sneered Bellatrix, covering her moment of inadequacy with a laugh like ice cold water. "Gudrun has returned."

"Gudrun?!" the werewolf choked in disbelief. "_The Snow-Witch?_"

"The very same," said Red Cap, creeping closer to the sound of the child who was still sobbing beneath the tower's wreckage.

"But she's _dead_, isn't she?"

"Death did not stop the Great Dark Lord," jeered Bellatrix, triumphantly. "And he will rise again just as his ancestor has!"

The Goblin laughed. "I may not be inclined to believe so strongly in the resurrection of Lord Voldemort as our dearest Bella does, but as for Gudrun, well," he smiled, wickedly, "her war has only just begun."

**oOo**

Early morning fog filled the cobbled streets of Scrum. The port town was surprisingly busy considering it was still before noon on the 1st of January. Scrum wasn't the friendliest of places. Every man, woman and child milling around the area had the kind of general disdain for the world and everything in it, and would only tolerate it if they'd downed a half dozen Firewhiskeys. A black-toothed vendor shuffled a trolley of something that claimed to be meat-in-a-bun towards them, conjuring up a dozen plates for the hungry group. Percy raised a delicate hand and shook his head no when one such bun was thrust under his nose. There were some things even mustard could not disguise.

The small party at last arrived outside a particularly shabby old shop, which was really saying something as most of the shops in the vicinity were about an hour away from crumbling around the ears of their proprietors. A tall palisade carved from human bones surrounded the shop, and the entire structure hobbled on what looked like four chicken legs. The sign above the shuttered window read: _Nam's Never-The-Less_.

"Who is this Ditchwater Nam, anyway?" Nox enquired, looking at the symbol painted beside the words; a serpent biting its own tail, forming a perfect circle.

The Captain's rigger, who had previously introduced himself as Jack the Flapper, wiggled a finger around in his ear and flicked a piece of wax into a drain, which would have been an acceptable if slightly crude act if the finger had been his.

"You ain't worried she'll turn yeh into a toad or something, eh gurlie?" he said, his leering face edging closer to Nox, who merely sighed and ran a hand through her untidy short hair.

"Don't get cheeky or I'll get angry."

"You're not angry now?"

"No. Just impatient." She stepped closer. "You can try for angry if you'd like."

"No- no!" He waved his hands hastily. "Ah'm fine with impatient."

She gave him a half-amused lopsided smirk, then turned to look at the golden statues of Draco and Luna, both of whom were balanced on Tuba's broad shoulders, (the squirrel having relocated to the top of his shaven head). The large wizard had merely scoffed at George when he had offered to cast a weightless Charm to ease the load.

"Flapper's been a customer of every woman's in Scrum, Nam included," Tuba commented, dryly, (Flapper had the grace to look ashamed; whether or not he genuinely felt ashamed was another matter). "The Captain's well acquainted with her too. If there's a hint of a bad storm ahead, he comes to Nam for a reading. She's never been wrong yet."

Nox nodded without taking her gaze off Luna. The girl's still, wide eyes left her heart feeling hardened and obstinate. Nam would know how to change her back. She had to, because the alternative was simply not an option.

"Right, Nox, stick close to Percy when we're inside. He might need protecting," said George, checking his coat pockets. "All ready?"

"I dunno, George," Fred began, musingly, "if Percy's got Nox covered, that makes me your date and the truth of the matter is I feel a headache coming on."

"_Little Bo Peep has lost her Sheep_," said Percy, irritably.

"That's very nice, Perce, thank you."

"Arg! _Baa, baa, black sheep!_"

"Enough larkin' around," Captain Moody growled, fixing himself another noxious pipe. "Watch yourselves in there. Nam's never what she seems. Be prepared to pay a price for your questions. She's got a head for money, that one."

Fred beamed. "Don't worry about that, we know about money."

"Knowing about money is practically our middle name," agreed George.

"Aye, just don't touch _anything!_" the Captain snapped. "Especially not anythin' that's got more limbs than what's dignified. If you do, you'd better wish you've got a crowd of sacrificial virgins standing by."

"We've got one right here," Fred said, waving an airy hand in the direction of Nox. Percy grunted his disapproval of this with a very disagreeable rendition of _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_.

George knocked on the shop door. After a moment that seemed to last much longer than it was, the door opened a crack just enough to reveal a thin slice of dusky face belonging to a very beautiful young Indian woman. Her one visible dark eye ranged over the bedraggled group.

"Good. I was expecting you," she smiled, her voice like silk. "Come on in." And the door opened.

George caught the look on Nox's face and ruffled her head. "Seers always say that."

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about it," added Fred as he drifted over the threshold ahead of them, followed closely by his twin. "It's really more of a gimmick."

"That's okay, I don't really believe any of this anyway," she replied levelly, and followed their lead, but the moment she crossed the threshold did the door slam shut behind them, barring off Percy, Scrum and the crew of the _Earnest Vice_. They spun around in alarm. Percy's voice could be heard squawking _'Nevermore!'_ and thumping hard on the other side of the door.

"Don't be alarmed," said Nam, kindly. "My appointment is with the three of you only. Four is an unlucky number in Divination. I hope you understand." But she did not wait around to hear them argue, leaving them with the only option to follow her lead.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Nox whispered.

"Yeah – well, Percy'll do his nut in, but it'll be good for him," said George.

"Bring him down a peg or two," nodded Fred with a snicker. "He tends to think the universe exists solely for his big fat head and his filing cabinet. We're just allowed to tag along on his good grace."

There was music playing and the air was thickly perfumed with incense. The interior of Nam's shop was much less shabby on the inside; the floors were of warm, polished marble and the walls were painted with moving murals and draped with silk hangings. They followed Nam's elegant figure, the witch's hips swaying in a motion that had the twins hypnotised.

"Can you believe that Flapper had a shot at her?" Fred muttered, sulkily.

"Maybe she's carrying a contagious fatal disease," George offered.

Ahead, Nam turned her dark head and smiled, dark eyelashes fluttering against her smooth, dusky skin.

Fred moaned. "Lucky disease."

"Good god, you have the attention span of a fly in a hurricane whenever a pretty face passes by," Nox commented, with a smirk.

Fred and George closed their eyes and inhaled deeply, as though she had mortally offended them.

"Well if _someone_ would start paying us the attention we deserve."

"You know, we work and we slave, but to what end, Fred?"

"Our efforts are vastly underappreciated, George. Really, is it any wonder that our eye might, on the odd occasion, roam to new green pastures?"

"Ninny-headed drama queens," Nox huffed, though unable to keep the corners of her mouth twitching in a grin. "You've been reading those _Witch Weekly_ columns again, haven't you?"

"Jealousy's unbecoming, Flatty-cakes," Fred sang.

"You coxcombed _clod_."

"Lackwitted louse."

"Numbskull!"

"_Dolt._"

George stifled a laugh. He sometimes toyed with the notion that Fred and Nox's often severe dislike of one another was developing into genuine affection. It was understandable they were getting frustrated, having lived in each other's pockets these past few months. It was what Muggles sometimes called 'cabin fever'. Course, the other side of his brain (the side that didn't tell blatant porkies), understood that the detective and his twin could have been standing at opposite ends of a Quidditch pitch and still get on each other's nerves.

Nam's silky suddenly voice interrupted the conversation. "I take it you are travellers here? I don't usually have clients in my shop on the 1st of January."

"We've just come from the Black Forest," Fred put in eagerly, stepping purposefully in front of Nox. "Y'know, usual New Year lark: drink, dancing. Sharp pointy teeth."

"Oh? The Black Forest, is it?" The young witch sighed and reached into her pocket for a long key. "It's that time already, then. And your business here?"

"If you're a seer, shouldn't you already know that?" Nox muttered, before George hastily plastered his hand across her mouth.

"There was an accident," he said, hurriedly. "A friend of our's was turned into gold. Something about a curse from Pendragon's Pear tree. Captain Moody said you could help us out."

"Don't forget Draco, the amazing bouncing paperweight," Fred added. "If he didn't look like a foot I might have hired him as a hat stand."

"_Fred!_" spluttered Nox.

"Alright, alright. A coat-rack, then."

Nam looked hesitant. "So it's Chrysopoeia – the transmutation of a being into gold. It's a difficult thing to reverse, but possible given the right potion."

There were glass cases on either side of the corridor now, each one displaying an all too lifelike manikin head – young and old, beautiful and frail, dark and pale – and above each case there was a bronze plaque with a name and a date. Nam stopped before an empty case that read, _'Sweta Swani, August 1975'_. She took the key, slotting it into place, and unlocked the door.

"I hope you don't mind if I change here," she said, with a mysterious wink at the twins, who shook their heads as if they'd just struck dragon's gold.

Nam raised her hands to her head and then, to the others' horror, snapped it clean off her shoulders and placed it inside the empty case. The headless body then strolled across the corridor towards another case, with the ease that came with a hundred years practise. The head she fixed upon her shoulders this time was ancient, one-eyed and more wrinkled than a bag of prunes. Her body doubled over like an old tree branch and the indigo sari she had worn previously grew thick and coarse.

"Gives whole new meaning to the phrase 'head-case', doesn't it?" George whispered, while Fred recoiled in exaggerated disgust beside him.

"I had a doll that could do that once," said Nox numbly, giving up on the highly improbable. "It's a good thing all this doesn't exist. In the real world, I might have bolted."

"You might want to keep that option open," Fred murmured, as the small decrepit witch beckoned them to follow through a round yellow door at the end of the hall.

The room they entered was filled with books from floor to ceiling, where smoked meats and an assortment of odd-looking iron implements hung from the rafters. There was a small grimy window that might have had a clear view out to the sea and a large stuffed crocodile sitting along the window-box. Noxious fumes billowed from a large glass hooka in the corner, mixing with the smoke from the peat fire burning beneath a fat cauldron.

Nox swore she could hear whisperings from the books. The leather bound spines reminded her of folded up bats, who watched their every movement with a cold, calculating gaze. An emblem on one particular spine caught her interest; a snake forming a perfect 'S' holding an apple in its mouth, and speared with an arrow; the same symbol carved into the stone at Blackwater Hall.

The old crone sat down at a round wooden table in the centre of the room, the light wood stained with something that looked disturbingly like blood. The table was adorned only by a lamp and a skull that was chewing thoughtfully on a stick of pink bubblegum.

"My original head," said Nam in a quavering voice, and stroked the skull lovingly. "Back in the times they called me Baba Yaga. These days I'm lucky if I can keep a head on longer than an hour. Magic's not what it used to be, but enough of my bletherings – let's talk business, my scrumpets."

Nox placed her hands flat on the table and leaned towards the old witch in a very no-nonsense manner. "First you might want to tell us why you have a shop full of heads back there."

The old woman grinned, revealing a set of iron teeth and black gums. "Skins I've acquired as payments for favours over the years, my dear. Don't mistake me for any old witch. Indeed, don't mistake me for any old human either."

George frowned, peering into the contents of the bubbling cauldron with a grimace. "You're Faerie folk, aren't you?"

"I've seen fairer," Fred grunted, eyeing the woman's hairy chin with displeasure, and in a movement near undetectable to the naked eye, the old crone had grabbed a broom and lashed it violently through Fred's non-corporeal body.

"That's no way to talk to a lady, you cretinous, verminous oaf!" Nam shrieked, gnashing her teeth. "Especially one who would do business with you! Now, about your little gold friends."

"We'll pay anything," said George directly, "but we've gotta be quick about it."

"We don't know how long they can hold out in that form," Fred explained.

The old crone nodded her head, then reached under the table and brought up a skinned ferret, which she then laid along the table. With a snap of her fingers, her nails grew long and sharp, like a hawk's talons, and sliced the skinned body from neck to groin, spilling the creature's intestines across the table. Nam then proceeded to poke her fingers around the ferret's innards.

"Yes, yes… looks like rain on Thursday, better not put the washing out… Ah-hah! Here we are." She licked her fingers clean, ignoring the look of disgust on her customer's faces. "The usual twenty-four hour deal. If you can't change them back before then, I'm afraid your friends are sunk. But do not worry too much about time. Time is merely habit after all and add to that–" Her bony hand suddenly grasped Nox's jaw painfully, the nails digging into her skin. "You have unnatural luck, my girl."

"Blimey, that's an overstatement if ever I heard one," said Fred.

Nox tried not to squirm in the old woman's surprisingly strong grip. The empty socket in the Faerie's head drew her gaze in like the deepest depths of the ocean.

"You've had no Felix Felicis in the recent past, have you?" she asked while her good eye, the colourless grey of old age, peered into Nox's searchingly.

"Not a drop," George answered for her.

"Hmm." The old woman released Nox's chin and leaned back into her chair. "Is there anything you carry on your self? A charm perhaps, or a pendant? Something you yourself might consider to be lucky?"

Nox thought a moment, then shook her head. "No, nothing I can think of. I mean I have my dad's pocket watch, but it's hardly ever on me, and my notebook–"

"Your jacket." Nam's clawed hand gripped one of the large brass buttons between her fingers. "Sewn together with Felix Filum – lucky thread." The Faerie smiled unpleasantly. "Now how does a Muggle get hold of something like this, I wonder."

Nox felt her face turn red. "A-actually…"

But the old crone cut her off. "Now, let's talk about your payment."

"Merlin! Look, we said we'd pay anything, alright?" Fred said, impatiently. "Let's just get cracking."

Nam cackled. "Ah, how many times have I trapped a soul with those reckless words! Lucky for you, m'boy, I've already received a payment for your wish."

"From _who?_" the twins chorused in surprise.

"Tsk! A good witch never blabs her gums," she said, wagging a long finger. "But I can say that thumbs were wet and I am bound by the law I live by to honour that bargain and to say also that the payment I received is greater than your wish. To keep the balance of this world, I'll give you three divinations."

"We don't need a stinking divination," George snapped, his temper rising. "What we need is something that'll change Luna and Draco back to normal."

The Faerie smiled, her iron teeth gleaming in the grimy light. "And have it you shall." She reached around to the back of her head and thumped her skull, hard. With a small _pop_, her remaining eye fell onto the table.

"Crikey, when Professor Trelawney used to harp on about her 'inner eye'," Fred muttered in George's ear, "I didn't think she meant _this_."

Nam continued placidly, "My original eye holds many answers, for it keeps safe the memory of everything that has happened in this world and the likeliest outcome for what is yet to come, but what each of you will see in there is only what you take with you."

"Take where?" Nox heard herself say, but the words suddenly sounded very far away, as though she was hearing herself talk from another room. She could feel herself sweating from the heat of the peat fire and the fumes of fruit tobacco from the hooka hung heavier than ever in the air, sticking to her clothes and hair. The milky grey eye stared blindly back at her from the table, while time and space shifted and stretched like a ball of play-doe around her head.

All the while, the whisperings of the books grew louder.

**oOo**

The previous night had been one of intense cold, and long icicles now speared down from branches, glittering in the watery sunlight like swords. The frost was hard. The ground felt like iron beneath Fred's feet. His clothes were unsuited to the low temperatures too. The thin cloak, the one he wore towards the end of spring at Hogwarts, left the rusty hairs on his arms tingling with the cold. He ran a thumb over the goosebumps, musingly. His hands were younger and there were hardly any signs of scarring from explosive experiments and Quidditch games.

Fred looked at his new surroundings, frowning. He knew this place. He'd had this dream several times as a boy. Any moment, someone would –

"_Oof!_"

"Oops – sorry!"

"Merlin, watch it mate!" Fred groaned, rubbing the back of his head where it had smacked against the hard snow. Then froze. "Crikey, is that _my_ voice?" he breathed, in disbelief. His voice was certainly his own, but it had lost its deep tones and sounded squeaky and high-pitched. "Don't tell me that old witch Nam gave me a ruddy anti-ageing potion!" He paused to pat himself all over his very solid body. "Wait… I was dead a minute ago." He looked at his hands, then pinched his face. "Oi, what in _Godric's gonads_ is going on?"

The boy who had ploughed into him sat back on his haunches, his mouth quirked in a line of uncertainty. He could not have been any older than twelve, with a mop of rusty red hair, slightly darker than Fred's. He wore a coarse tunic and linen braies down to his ankle, and tied by a leather thong to his belt was a small axe. On the inside of his belt was tucked a little bone whistle, a knife and what looked like a very crudely carved wand.

"I think you're cracked, mate," said the boy, flatly. "How hard did you hit your head there? Well, anyway, I've gotta get going. If I don't get to the castle 'fore dark, Fat Elfred'll clout me one. I'm reciting in the Hall tonight. They want to hear _Beowulf_." He snorted and rolled his hazel eyes. "It's always Beowulf! Why don't they ask for something different for once? My personal favourite's the Three Peverell Brothers. Imagine getting your hands on the Deathstick? No one could beat you in battle; you'd be the greatest wizard of all time! Show old Gudrun a thing or too."

He hopped to his feet like a frog and grinned at Fred, who was still lying sprawled on the icy ground.

"Nice meeting you mate. If you're ever at Hogwarts, look for me. My name's Puck," he said, then tossed a snowball in Fred's face with an impish grin. "Puck Hufflepuff."

The scene dissolved around him, swirling and reforming around his head, and as it did he could feel himself growing and stretching. When the scenery settled – a quiet clearing in the middle of a snowy pine forest – he could see more scars on his hands, evidence of the puss filled pock-marks from the Puking Pastille prototypes he and George experimented with in their fifth year.

There was a snap behind him, followed by a sudden whoosh, and he ducked his in the nick of time as a spell went zooming over his head, having played out this scene plenty of times in his dreams. He leapt to his feet, hand wrapped around his wand. Puck, as expected, was standing at the other end of the forest clearing, grinning broadly.

"That was great! But you won't be able to dodge this one!" and he hurled another spell, purple and fizzing, towards Fred, who countered easily.

"Bright spark, you are," Fred gloated, tossing a Jelly-Legs curse back at him. "You going to keep tossing measly light effects my way or are you going to get serious?"

"What're light effects?" frowned Puck, swinging his crude wand around and sending two separate Stunning spells Fred's way. "And serious is such a dirty word. I never use it in conversation."

Fred smirked. "My sentiments exactly." In one smooth motion, he deflected the spells, then fired his wand towards the pine trees above Puck's head. There was an ominous grumble, followed by a heap of snow that came tumbling down on top of his opponent's head with a muffled _fump!_

Fred leaned against a nearby tree, neatly crossing his hands behind his head with a decidedly superior look on his face. After a minute, Puck's rusty-red head poked out of the heap of snow, pouting.

"Aww… Damn. Thought I had you there for a moment." He clambered out of the snow mound and dusted himself off.

"Call it revenge for that snowball you smacked me with," Fred commented, lightly.

"Ha! Oh yeah. Forgot about that." Puck paused, peering at him curiously. "Say, you're pretty strong. A little slow to react on your right side, though. Did something happen to you?"

Fred unfolded his arms and touched his left temple, gingerly. The fatal injury he'd received at the Battle of Hogwarts was not there of course, but his skull still felt sensitive to the touch.

"You can tell that, eh?" he muttered, then smiled. "Guess I'll have to do better next time."

"And me, too!" Puck gripped his wand, triumphantly. "And next time I won't lose."

The sound of a horn bellowing broke their conversation and the stillness of the wood. Puck's face turned grim.

"Fat Elfred's horn. Damnit. That'll be Gudrun on the move again," and even as he said it, the pale sky overhead turned dark and leaden. Snow began to trickle down. "Don't know why she bothers. Godric'll never let her pass the gates."

"Godric?" Fred blinked back his surprise. "_Godric Gryffindor?_"

The horn bellowed again.

"I'd better head," said Puck. "You'd better get out of here too. But we'll definitely duel again! I won't lose to the likes of you," he laughed, then darted off into the trees with the speed of a hare, and once again the scene around Fred became blurred and distorted.

Fred was sixteen now; he knew by the half-moon scar on his knuckle where a Bludger had caught him off guard during practise the summer before his final year at Hogwarts.

He was unfamiliar with this next scene. It had never come up in a dream before. It was late in the evening and the sky was turning blood-red. The ground underneath his feet was solid but slippery from the delicate frosted masterpieces covering the stonework of what was, Fred realised with a rush of excitement, a semi-constructed Hogwarts castle. There were several holes in the skeletal structure that left the innards gaping open like jagged wounds. It was a peculiar sight seeing the castle so bare and with so few higgledy-piggledy twists and turns and turrets.

Just then, there was a yelp of fright and Fred turned just in time to see Puck tumble over the castle wall, catching hold of a brick by the tips of his fingers.

"_Mobilicorpus!_" Fred shouted, pointing his wand at the boy before he plummeted to a grizzly death, and guided him back onto the castle wall. "Merlin," he huffed when Puck's feet found solid ground, "you don't half like the drama much."

Puck coughed into his hand, embarrassedly. "Bit of a slip, that's all. Here, what'choo doing in Hogwarts anyway? I've never seen you in the castle before. Unless…" His hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You in the dungeons with Slytherin's lot?"

"Blimey, no!" squawked Fred, looking very offended. "I'm just …visiting."

Puck shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Yeah, well I can't duel you now anyway. I broke my wand earlier. Helga's furious with me." He grinned toothily. "But she'll make me a new one. My sister's the greatest wand-maker in all the country. Even those bloody stupid Vikings want wands from her – eh, not that we'd trade with them or anything," he added hastily.

"Why'd you want to duel me so badly, anyway?" asked Fred. "Aside from the fact that I'm the greatest dueller the world's ever seen."

"Ha! Right. My arse, you are." Puck rubbed his running nose on the sleeve of his coarse woollen tunic. "But you are pretty amazing. Still, wonder how you'd do with a sword. You don't even carry a seax on you." He scratched his chin, thoughtfully. "No knife, no axe, only a wand. Pretty peculiar."

"Wand's all I need," said Fred, patting the pocket of his robes.

"Maybe," Puck nodded, "but I like having the option to fight with a sword, too. It's one thing casting a spell, but you can really feel the strength of your opponent through a sword. Being so close to someone during a fight and knowing you're both fighting on equal terms for your life you form a warrior's bond, so when you die, you die with honour. Godric taught me that." Puck turned to look at him. "That's why I want to fight you. I want to know how strong I am and I can only do that through duelling strong opponents. It's the thing that makes me happiest." He slapped Fred's shoulder, chuckling. "What about you?"

"What makes me happiest…" he stopped. His lips twitched in a wry smile, and he leaned back to take in the sunset. "Hogwarts."

The scene dissolved once more. Now Fred was standing in the middle of a blizzard. The snow was deep and treacherous, with a hard crust of ice on top that made walking a near impossibility. Just ahead through the blinding snow drifts he could make out the cylindrical shape of a ruined Broch tower, leftover remnants from ancient Pictish times. Puck was crouched beneath it, hunched over the limp body of a small girl, no older than eight.

Fred staggered towards him, fighting for breath in the fierce storm, but as he got closer, the wind and the cold became more intense. Fred put a hand to his chest; it felt as though the storm was in his blood, freezing his insides…

'_Dementors,'_ his mind whispered, urgently. He fumbled for his wand.

"_E-Expecto_-" he rasped, fighting to keep a grip on his wand, "Bloody damn. _Expecto… Patronum!_" Out the end of his wand burst a dazzling white fox that went loping off into the blizzard, but there was no relief from the stabbing cold that was now piercing his very bones.

And then a figure emerged from the storm, taller than any Dementor and twice as chilling. He could not see her face, only the long grey dress she wore, glittering like frost, and in her hand she carried a wand unlike any he had ever seen; a long dagger of ice, the tip of its point smoking as if eager to be put to use.

Puck lifted his head sharply as he felt the woman's presence towering over him. "Y-You!" he tried to sound brave, but his trembling voice betrayed his nerve. "You! You murdered Eldred!" He hugged the body of the child in his arms, protectively. "And Eliade, you killed them _both!_"

"Mere casualties of war." She pressed the tip of her wand under Puck's chin. "Who are you, boy?"

"Don't tell her you daft prat!" Fred ordered, forcing his legs forward, and still neither heard nor acknowledged him over the roar of the storm. But he could hear them perfectly. The words echoed inside and around his skull until his eardrums ached.

The woman did not smile when Puck answered him, only continued in that same, commanding tone that seemed to give the listener no other choice but to obey, "And your birthday?"

"April… 1st." Puck's shoulders sagged.

"A Founder's brother. What good fortune."

"_Hag!_" Puck snarled.

This time the woman laughed, but the corners of her mouth had not moved and it was the worst sound Fred had ever heard; like ice cracking and the mountains bowing to the wind.

"No, boy," the woman said at length. "Queen." And she reached inside Puck's chest without breaking skin or bone, or tearing the coarse wool of his tunic, and pulled out his heart, warm and beating.

Puck flopped to the ground lifelessly, a mere empty vessel. Fred heard his own agonized scream split the storm, but no matter how much progress he made through the snow, they were always out of reach. The tall white woman gazed thoughtfully at the shivering heart in her hand, then knelt beside the recumbent body at her feet.

"I thank you for your heart. Rest assured it will be put to great use." She brushed a lock of rust coloured hair from his ear and whispered, "Tell me your last wish."

Fred heard the words whispered on the wind before he saw Puck's lips move.

"_I want to live._"

"Very well."

And Fred knew what she was going to do before it happened; before the small frozen girl in Puck's arms had her heart plucked out like a ripe apple from her chest and stuffed into the empty hole in Puck's own.

"We will see what I can make of you, boy," said the white woman, showing no emotion in her pale eyes. "But a new life warrants a new name. Taking the heart of your friend is a harsh crime in this world; as harsh as the frost, and you will be known as such henceforth."

"Frost…" Fred muttered, and his mouth fell open agape as the winds swirled around his head and obscured the terrible scene from his gaze. "_Frost?_"

**oOo**

Portobello Road. August 18th, 1987. Her eighth birthday.

It was a particularly wet summer. Rain splashed into the gutters and over the grumpy vendors, soaking through their canvases and laying waste to the dubious antiques they had for sale. This street had always disappointed her. It was nothing like in the movies. Where were the shifty-eyed hagglers whose coats were lined with an assortment of fake gold pocket watches, or the flouncing dancers and entertainers, invariably followed by a group of rosy cheeked skipping children with blue ribbons in their hair or caps placed at a rakishly jaunty angle (of course, Nox knew no real children went 'hoppitty skip hop' and wore ribbons in their hair unless they were bribed or on drugs)?

There were very few people on the street today, the bad weather having chased off most of the would-be shoppers. Only the really serious collectors were left, plus an old friend of her father's who had wandered on ahead with his sons, a beggar and a young woman with her daughter who had bought a red ball from a stall. Nox felt a twinge of jealousy as the girl bounced it through the puddles ahead.

But none of that mattered, because she was with her father and whatever they did turned into an adventure. She squeezed his fat thumb.

Everything about Edward Balthazar McRozen – or "Mad Rozza" as the tabloids labelled him – was larger than life, from his belly, to his nose, to his taller than tall tales. He had large hands too. She loved the way he could enclose both her hands into one of his.

"Oooh, Gertie – looks like rain, what? Dash it all, and me without a coat. Bloody British weather. And they have the cheek to call this summer!"

"It's been raining for half an hour, Dad." Her red wellies splashed through a puddle. "And Nox. My name is Nox."

"By Jove, has it really? Ha! Well bless my fat head." He wrinkled his bushy moustache and sneezed so loudly that an old woman passing by almost jumped out of her skin. "Here, have I ever told you the story of the _castration_ of Rory?"

She was eight and already she had learned to take her father's stories with a reasonably sized pinch of salt.

"Which one's that?"

His blue eyes twinkled with barely concealed excitement. If Edward had had a tail, it would be wagging. "Ahh, why 'tis a grave tale of a bonnie young Highlander who lost the good grace of his chieftan and so was castrated upon the peak of the highest hill for all his clan to see. In revenge, he took hold of the chief's young bairn and sacrificed him to the dragon of that stony peak and-"

"That's not what happened," she interrupted. "I've read about this before. He just took the baby and jumped off a cliff. There were no dragons involved." She raised a small finger up before he could interrupt. "Or trolls, or goblins or kelpies and definitely _no_ _Black Dogs._"

Edward's eyes turned wide and watery. It was strange how a grown man of his size could resemble a tiny puppy left out in the rain. Pitiful, really. Very soon his bottom lip would be quivering.

She sighed. "It doesn't seem plausible. And the book said-"

"Bah! Poppycock! Books are just words from the mouths of flat-headed scholars, and what do they know sitting in their dusty offices day in, day out? Experience, my Gertie – _that's_ reality."

She understood the definition of the word 'optimist' before she could even spell it, because Edward was the most irritating optimist the world had ever known. He seemed to lack the little voice that warned most people of impending doom. In short, he was the kind of man who would pull a lever just to see what it did, especially if that lever had a sign hanging on it that read, 'DO NOT, UNDER _ANY_ CIRCUMSTANCES, PULL'. She supposed that's what made them so happy together, because it was generally agreed on that Nox had been born old. They balanced each other out.

They stopped at the curb of the road, her small pale hand still wrapped around his thumb.

"I still prefer 'The Well at the World's End'," she told him. "And 'The Snow Queen'. I always liked Gerda. She seems…" She paused, searching for the right word. "_Real._ I liked her."

Edward's expression softened and his hand moved to ruffle her short hair. "Well, you and Gerda be as real as you want, even when the world turns upside down." He grinned and whispered conspiratorially, "And I promise it will, but that's the best part of the story."

Nox was not sure what he meant by that, but when he spoke in those tones, electric tones that promised adventure, she always felt a shiver of excitement for the future. She'd been so caught up in his voice that she failed to notice at first the red ball go flying past her face, or the girl go running after it. But she did hear the screech of the bus (or was it a car?), and the scream of several onlookers (or had it just been the girl's mother?), and she felt the mud on her dress (or was that blood?). And was it raining harder, or was it just that the whole world was moving so fast that everything seemed blurred and distorted? Her father had thrust her into someone's hands and was running towards the small body on the road.

"_Good god._ Arthur, your cloak!"

She knew it was serious. Edward never used that tone. And he never looked afraid – this was nothing like the time he'd found a spider in the bathtub and had come running into her bedroom with nothing but a poke-a-dotted towel wrapped around his sizeable midriff. This was serious. And she was old enough to understand what _serious_ meant.

"Interesting memory, my scrumpet," Ditchwater Nam cackled in her ear.

Nox blinked, trying to find her bearings. She was still on Portobello Road, but the rain had become so heavy that the scene unfolding around her was blurrier than ever.

"How did I get here?" she asked, numbly. "This happened sixteen years ago."

The rhythmic red and blue flash of the ambulance lights was now visible through the downpour. It had been a long time since Nox had thought about that day. It was the first time she'd seen death up close. Nevertheless, try as she might Nox could not remember what came afterwards, but she had a sickeningly uncomfortable feeling that it was important.

She turned sharply towards the Faerie-witch. "Where are Fred and George?"

Nam smiled. "They're occupied with playing out their own divinations at the moment."

"But how is this payment for… for whatever price was paid?" she spluttered, angrily. "I don't need some divination or a trip down memory lane. I just need a way to–"

"–To keep your friends safe, yes, all very admirable," the Faerie replied, patiently. "But sometimes the key to understanding our present can be found in our past."

Nox pushed her sodden hair out of her eyes. "But what's so important about this memory? All I remember about it is sadness…"

The witch's hollow gaze frowned at the scene around them. "An outside force is obscuring this memory. You have only seen half of it."

"Where's the other half?"

"What should I care, my little urchin?" rasped Nam. "You three wandered so easily into my midst. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain – you have your divinations, though little help it will do you now. You're trapped here until I say you can leave." The Faerie smiled unpleasantly. "And I won't. You see, you've fallen asleep, my dear, and I have only one rule in my house – anything that falls asleep beneath its roof is mine for the taking. Oooh, and I haven't trapped a ghost in many long years. His soul will make the perfect jam." She licked her blackened gums.

Nox scowled. "We're not so easy to trap."

"And yet here you are," Nam retorted. "It amuses me, dear girl, that you who are on a quest to dethrone the Great Queen, her dark majesty, Gudrun, think I – being of the same old magic – would support you."

"Gudrun?" Nox repeated, perplexed, then said, "the one who built Viktor's – I mean, Blackwater Hall?"

The Faerie inclined her empty-socketed head. "The wolves and the Black Forest have done their best to hinder her by bringing down the tower, but nothing they do can stop her now. You see, pretty doll, the whole world is trembling with the fate of that woman's wish."

"What was her wish?" Nox asked, numbly.

"To avoid Death at all costs." The witch turned to leave. "Now if you excuse me, I have to make broth from your bones."

"You're too cocky," Nox snarled, "but we've gotten out of tighter scraps than this!"

Nam looked over her hunched shoulder. "Your ghost is lost in a storm and his twin is at this very moment facing himself in front of a Truth mirror – he will lose his mind before long. Most people do when faced with their true selves. You yourself are of little help, my magicless Muggle." She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Nox cried. "Just tell me…one thing. Just one thing. _Please!_"

Nam sighed and clicked her tongue. "Well I suppose. I am feeling charitable today."

"Who paid the price for our bargain with you?"

Nam hesitated. "Why, the man in this dream of course." She sighed. "I should have thought you knew, considering he was your father."

**oOo**

There was no light in the room, if indeed it was a room. George couldn't even be certain that what he stood on was solid, nor that of the golden sphinx that gazed down at him from immeasurable height, its expression changing with every ticking second. It was not a human face, but it wasn't quite animal either, more like the sun and the moon given face. George had never really understood the true meaning of reality before he'd looked on that terrible face.

Fear gripped him. He stood his place.

Between the sphinx's claws a mirror was held, silver and round like the moon.

"A Truth mirror," said Ditchwater Nam from behind him.

"Yeah?" he muttered. "And exactly how can this help my mates?"

"You have a one-track mind, my sausage," the Faerie sighed. "Your friends must mean a lot to you."

George gave a sardonic chuckle. "Draco doesn't mean squat to me, but just because he's an arrogant, self-obsessed, back-stabbing little toerag doesn't mean I'm going to let him shuffle off his mortal coil just yet." He looked at the mirror, its surface glittering like polished silver, reminding him of Luna's impossibly round eyes. "Luna would do the same for me. She wouldn't think twice about it."

The glass began to shimmer and bubble like hot water.

"The only thing known to man that can reverse the effects of chrysopoeia is a vessel of cat breath mixed with water from the World Tree's roots," Nam told him, "but the only way you can get it is through that mirror, and you'd be dead wrong thinking that's as easy as stepping through a doorway. What you see reflected in the glass is your true, innermost nature."

"Well that's easy," George interrupted, confidently.

"You think so? But who can ever say they truly know themselves? Even the mightiest witches and wizards, celebrated as heroes for having slain dragons and hydras, have run screaming from the monster they've faced in this mirror. Imagine thinking all your life that you are brave and courageous, only to find you are really a coward at heart." She hobbled closer to him, resting her knobbly chin on his shoulder. "To save your friends, you must go through yourself. But I wonder what might face you in the glass, being only half a twin."

George froze. The mirror smoothed out again, and now a figure stood behind the glass – a man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, the traces of a smile still evident on his thin grey lips. George swallowed, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes against that image. He felt his head droop.

The Faerie cackled, her scratchy laughter echoing into infinity. "I've been in your mind, boy. What an unhappy little trickster you are! So many perhaps's! 'Perhaps there was somewhere where it hadn't happened – perhaps Rookwood had been stopped just in time before he blew up the castle – perhaps Fred had moved an inch to the side, avoiding that lump of rock altogether – perhaps someone had shouted a warning – perhaps your brother Percy had never made that joke – perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!" she shouted with glee. "But there is no saving a life that's run out, my little Gemini."

"Stuff a sock in it, would you." George straightened his back, stretching his stiff neck with a small grimace. "Playing pranks is all fair and well but -" He turned and glared. "Playing games with people's feelings is another point entirely," he said calmly, but there was no mistaking the quiet fury under his tone. "I can't forgive you for that."

And then he reached into his reflection in the silver mirror, and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a viscous red liquid.

"WRETCH!" shrieked Nam, her dark sockets focusing on the bottle in his hand. "Give that back to me! Give it back _now_ or I'll grind your bones!"

"Oh? Wasn't your plan all along?" said George mockingly, tossing the vessel from one hand to the other. "If you want it, come and get it."

The Faerie's clawed hands grasped at him, blindly. "You'll pay for this!"

"Maybe," he said, leaping nimbly out of her reach, "but not today, I'm kind've busy. Oh, and just to give you a heads up – because I'm feeling _charitable_ – your house is about to turn into a giant canary."

She stopped and gaped at him.

George winked.

"Toodles!"

The strange ground beneath their feet was beginning to feel more solid and the Sphinx with the Truth mirror was fading fast, replaced by the musty books of Nam's room, which were all sprouting tiny yellow feathers and little clawed feet. Nam herself was transforming into the most sinister canary George had ever seen.

"What did you do?" said Nox in amazement, climbing unsteadily to her feet, having woken from her divination on the floor.

"Dropped a few Canary Crème surprises into that cauldron of her's when we came in," George said casually. "I figured she'd pull a stunt like this. I told Ron a story about Baba Yaga once – kept him up most of the night. Remember you made him think he wet the bed in the morning after pouring water on his sheets, Fred?"

Fred nodded without smiling. "Nam must change her name every few centuries so no one knows what she's capable of," he muttered bitterly.

George looked at his twin in surprise. If possible Fred looked paler than usual. George wondered what the Faerie had shown him in his divination.

The cauldron gave a loud belch and coughed up some feathers.

"How many of these Canary Crèmes did you put into that cauldron?" asked Nox, dodging a few larger feathers that were sprouting up between the floorboards.

"Enough to buy us some time to scarper," said George, grabbing her hand to run, but as they left the room, Nox caught sight of the book with the symbol of the snake and arrow embedded in its spine. Without a second thought, she snatched it from the shelf and stuffed it inside her coat.

They set off at a sprint, tearing through the corridor of cased heads, Ditchwater Nam screaming behind them. The layout of her shop had changed; there were doors behind doors, passageways that led nowhere, rooms that seemed endless, and now they could see the Faerie-witch riding in her cauldron towards them, pushing it through the air with her broom like a paddle boat.

"Come on, come on!" said Fred. "Where's the bleeding exit?!"

"What's that up ahead?" Nox shouted, pointing at a dazzlingly white light ahead of them – a peacock with silvery feathers.

"It's Percy's Patronus!" George laughed.

"We've found our ticket outt've here," said Fred. "Good ol' Perce! I swear I'll never play a prank on him again."

When they were all three of them safely on the street outside again, they found the entire structure of Nam's house was sprouting yellow feathers and the roof was transforming into a bright orange beak that began to squawk with Nam's rage.

"WHAT DID AH TELL YOU?!" Captain Moody hollered, clouting George across his head. "Don't – touch – _nothin'!_"

**oOo**

The sun was already beginning to set when the ship dropped anchor and rose high above the crooked rooftops and narrow streets of Scrum. Tuba was treating both Draco and Luna with the World Tree's water below deck. It had been close. Nox could barely believe they had been inside Ditchwater Nam's shop for ten hours. Only Percy had kept watch the full time, Captain Moody having dropped by every few hours.

Percy looked wretched and exhausted with worry, but occasionally she would catch him throwing her a furtive glance. She frowned and played with the worn sleeves of her navy-blue coat. Perhaps her father had been right; maybe there was no such thing as coincidence after all…

Draco Malfoy staggered onto the deck of _The Earnest Vice_, for once too pale and sickly to make any complaints, although he uttered no words of thanks to his rescuers either.

"You'll be happy to hear your parents are alive, boy," Captain Moody grunted, thrusting a copy of _The Prophet_ into Draco's hands with the headlines:

'_**HOGMANAY HORROR IN THE BLACK FOREST'**_

_Rumours regarding last night's massacre at Viktor Lestrade's  
famed Blackwater Hall continue to fly after Ministry officials  
confirm 42 guests lost their lives, including that of Minos Divine,  
alleged friend of Viktor Lestrade's who is himself counted among  
the missing. While it is uncertain what might have caused this disaster,  
Ministry spokeswizards have confirmed that the disturbance  
centred on Viktor Lestrade's stately mansion around  
midnight, New Year's Eve._

_'While we are unsure of the circumstances surrounding this tragedy,  
we would like to take this opportunity to assure people this is not  
the work of the dismantled organisation known as the Death Eaters,'  
says spokeswizard, Hibiscus Bogstrottle. 'We believe Viktor Lestrade,  
ex-head of the organisation V.A.M.P (Vampires Against Mauling People)  
may have made many enemies over recent years, who may or may not be  
responsible for last night.'_

_(To read the heroic story of our very own Eldred Worple's valiant  
rescue of Mr and Mrs Lucius Malfoy, turn to page 3, column 2.)_

"_Forty-two_?" breathed Nox, peering over the blonde man's shoulder. "Bloody damn."

Draco sneered, rolling the paper up and tucking it inside his dress robes. His head was bowed and he looked at no one on deck. "Something like that was bound to happen sooner or later with Minos skulking around the scene."

"Why did he attack you?" she asked.

"Minos blackmailed me, didn't he," Draco grunted, "after I found out a dirty little secret of his."

Nox nodded. "He murdered nine women – his wives."

Draco shook his head. "He was only engaged to them. Lost interest once they agreed to marry him, then did them in. That and he was the only known _Muggle_ Snatcher during the war. With that kind of information, I could have had him banged up in Azkaban until the next Millennium."

"Then why didn't you?"

The young wizard shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "He told me he had evidence against my fath- er, _false_ evidence that would have incriminated my father and put him in jail."

"But when you saw him with Miss Greengrass," she said, "you thought she might be next on his engagement list, so you threatened him?"

"How'd you know that?!" Draco turned scarlet with embarrassment. "Keep your nosy conk out of my business! She has nothing to do with it!" he lied, lamely, then stormed off to the far end of the ship.

"I think he wants to say thank you," said a familiar dreamy voice from behind Nox, "but I think he's quite a shy person at heart."

"Luna!" Nox threw her arms around the witch's neck in an awkward, haphazard sort of hug. Only now did she realise how worried she had been, but Nox also realised she was not the type of person who hugged. She pulled back, feeling her face flush in embarrassment. "I ...erm. Yes. Good for you! Er…"

Luna clasped her small hands around Nox's and smiled warmly.

"I would like to thank you, too. I'm sure you went through great trouble to help me. I can see it in your face." Luna's round eyes stared at her own, candidly. "You look a bit wonky."

Nox smiled. "I'm fine, honestly." She hesitated. "You know, it was really George who did all the gallant rescuing. You should thank him."

Luna's cheeks were tinged with pink. "Oh, yes, I will! I'm quite relieved not to be gold any more. It's not at all a pleasant sensation; it's a bit like eating a cake stuffed with rocks." And she skipped off across the deck, blond hair fanning out behind her.

Nox joined Fred at the prow of the ship.

"So," she began, "Happy New Year."

Fred smirked. "Good as time as any, I suppose. Happy New Year to you too."

She waited for a quip or a witty remark, but none came. Fred's attention was focused solely on the horizon ahead.

"Are you okay?"

Another smirk, but his silver eyes were not half as mirthful as his voice would suggest. "How's that leg of yours? Still hanging on by a thread?"

"You're changing the topic. Really," she pressed, the concern in her voice elevating, "what happened to you in there?"

Fred merely leaned his head on his hand and gave her his most charming smile. "I'd much rather discuss your body parts."

"You're impossible."

"Impossibly possible in an improbable way," Fred nodded, sagely. "Contrariwise, if I wasn't impossibly probable I couldn't possibly be here, how's that for logic?"

"If your logic ruled the world, cats would bark and mice would hunt men," she muttered, then she slipped her hand over his cold one, letting it hover there for a moment. "Well, if you need me…" Nox gave him a smile, then turned to leave.

And wherever Fred's heart was, it just skipped a beat.

**oOo**

Caithion Sidhe sat on the wall outside Weasley Manor, glowering at the full pack of cigarettes in his hand, rendered quite useless without a lighter. He hadn't thought this through.

Then, something caught his attention. He gazed up at the clear blue sky and commented lightly, "Looks like snow."

"No it doesn't," a passing jogger sneered, flouncing by in a pair of lycra shorts and a very revealing t-shirt. "Sun's blazing! You blind or what?"

Caithion watched the man mince off down the street. Then he opened his hand, palm facing up, expectantly. A silver engraved lighter flopped into it with a faint _pop_ just as the grey clouds gathered and the first snow trickled down. The jogger could be heard swearing down the street.

A satisfied smile crossed the Irishman's face as he plucked a cigarette out of the packet of Malboro Reds, and flicked the lighter on, but the soggy cigarette merely flopped and refused to light. Caithion sighed.

"I hate it when I'm right."

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** DONE! Bwahaha! (faints). Stupidly long chapter. Please review and let me know how this chapter went, you know I can take the crit! :D****

Notes of Interest (if you're a geek like me)

**Fred's Dream/Puck Hufflepuff:** The period Fred dreams about is (and I can actually give you specifics 'cos I was sad enough to write up my own Founders timeline lol), is 1005 AD, 13 years after the initial construction of Hogwarts. Viking raids are frequent, but the greatest threat at this time comes from Gudrun, the so-called Snow Witch. The twins mentioned 'Puck's ballads' in the prologue, where Percy was reading the Snow Queen's fairytale to them. The name 'Puck' means unsettled.

**Fred/George's wands:** After the battle of Hogwarts, George locked away his and Fred's wands and bought a new one (which was subsequently lost in Dartmoor when he faced the werewolf). I've always imagined the twins having wands made of Rowan – seems to suit their personalities – and I had a look at the Celtic Tree mythology, and sure enough April 1st is under Rowan (booya!). I love it when plot points come together. So the twins' original wands are Rowan, 11 1/4 inches, dragon-heartstring. George's new wand, the wand he bought after the first casebook on Dartmoor, is yew, 12 2/4 inches, unicorn hair.

**Ditchwater Nam aka Baba/Yaga:** Baba Yaga is a creepy-ass witch from Russian folklore. Seriously. She's wrong on so many levels (I blame you Kat!_ Blaaaaame!)._


	23. Casebook 04: The Angel Hotel

**A/N:** MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOGMANAY DUDES & DUDETTES! Oh man, I am so sorry that it's taken me such a stupidly long time to update! I've just started university and everything's just been mental with work and health issues. I feel like I've really got to work hard this year. That and I don't want to rush writing this story – I want to write it to the best of my ability. That said, kind of I'm undecided about this chapter LOL. XD Good news!

**Fic Related News: **The-Gwyllion, one of my favourite HP artists, finished a sketch commission of Edward and Caithion. Go check it out on Deviantart! Also, I have a new Twin Vice trailer up on Youtube (username: **xStarkiller**).

**Twilligan**: Thank you so much, mate! I'm really chuffed to hear you're enjoying the story. Haha, I love writing Fred/Nox arguing too, they keep me well entertained!

**Willa:** Oh wow, really? Ye Gods, that must've taken a while! I'm really flattered mate, thank you! And double cheers for watching my fic-trailers!

* * *

'"I am a messenger to thee from Arthur, to beg thee come and see him."'  
- Peredur

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook 04: The Angel Hotel

'_Once upon a time, there was a boy who left his mother to become a knight. Now ice runs his heart and chill blinds his eyes, and there he sits upon his throne of skulls in deepest Ironwood, where the wolf lords run – For who would befriend the winter prince, little Jack Frost, who sold his heart to the Snow Queen?'_

'_On winter nights you'll find him, children, cackling and crackling through the trees. And there you'll find him come Christmas Day in the Fisher King's court, playing a tune for the old Grail Lords. And then you'll run, friends, for little Jack Frost hunts you tonight.'_

'_Ah, but one day he'll catch a real treasure, children; a fish with a ring in its belly. Just like the old tales…'_

**- From the Tales of Beedle the Bard**

**oOo**

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Draco looked up at the tightly drawn face leaning over the counter towards him, her narrowed eyes heavily mascaraed so that the lashes stuck out at all angles, like twisted spider legs. He glowered. There was nothing to buy in the hospital shop but a bunch of old 1950s postcards depicting witches and wizards in their pointed hats and bathing robes along Blackpool Beach; families on broomsticks with the clock face of Big Ben as the backdrop; couples sitting by the fountains at Trafalgar Square, flanked by the great black lions, and lastly – he scowled – Harry Potter posing with the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, in the great Ministry Hall.

The shop attendant was tapping her wand impatiently against the desk now. He could feel her suspicious gaze on the back of his neck. Draco's cheeks flushed, hotly. He fumbled in the pockets of his robe for some change and breathed a mental sigh of relief when his fingers brushed a few Knuts. He picked up the postcard of the family at Big Ben and dumped it on the desk along with the coins, trying to look careless, as if money didn't matter. Then, without a word of thanks, he left the shop, turning right at the door and heading down the impeccably clean corridor.

"Come to see your father, Draco?" a passing Healer asked, kindly.

He grit his teeth.

"Yeah."

The Healer patted his shoulder as he passed.

"He'll be out soon. A week or two more, that's all. Chin up, lad."

Draco glared at the Healer's back as the man strolled off, whistling a cheerful tune. Easy for him to smile, he thought. He was making oodles of Galleons in this Merlin-forsaken hospital.

Draco picked up speed, leaving the smell of cleaning products, white-washed walls and smiling Healers behind. There was the exit – the derelict department store, Purge & Dowse, and now the crisp cool air. A light snow was falling, dusting the cars and cigarette strewn bin tops with white cotton-buds of ice. He pulled his thin robe around his shoulders. The momentary fear that it looked cheap made his heart freeze, but he quickly quashed it. He was a Malfoy. He had to remember that.

Slipping his bare chapped hands into his pockets, he started off down the streets, wanting to go anywhere but home or back to that hot, stuffy room where his father lay, pale and twisted, like a ghost in king's robes. A week or two? Yeah. Right.

Home was worse. She'd still be up, he knew, barely sober from the night before. Draco remembered her crumpled misery, the tears in her eyes never smudging the careful artwork of her eye make-up; never a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothes, despite the wear in them, because she believed the Healers when they told her he would be out in two weeks.

He stopped. His face was hot and his eyes prickled. He leaned his head back against the wrought-iron gates of the Muggle Parliament buildings, the twisting rose motifs blackened with frost, and watched his breath rise into the air in thick clouds.

And then he saw him; that instantly recognisable silhouette – the irritatingly messy hair, the squint glasses, the green eyes – not only because it was plastered all over every cover of every edition of _The Prophet_, but because he'd spent six years of school pouring every ounce of energy he had into hating everything about him, the great _Harry Potter_.

He'd changed, Draco thought bitterly. He wasn't broad-shouldered or muscular like the pictures of heroes you usually saw, but there was definitely a certain hero-like quality about him, a sureness in his stance and gaze that made people stop and stare, if only for a moment.

Jealousy stung him.

An icy breeze whistled down the street, bringing with it a flurry of snow that momentarily blurred Harry from Draco's sight. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he pulled his thin cloak further around him. It was a robe made to look expensive, but it was not designer and it did nothing against the chill of winter; not like Harry's clothes did. Money. You could practically smell it off him.

Draco leaned sullenly against the iron gates a second longer, half dreading that his old rival should see him in this cheap robe and half incensed that Harry had not noticed him in the first place. Suddenly the impulse to slip away without being noticed grew so strong that he almost skidded on a patch of ice as he turned.

Then Harry spoke.

"No one can die in the Houses of Parliament."

Draco turned. The wizard's eyes had not shifted and now Draco saw what he was staring at: the clock face of St Steven's Tower: 'Big Ben'.

He scowled. He couldn't help it. Years of inbred instinct compelled him.

"Yeah. So what?"

"It's just a legend," said Harry.

"Right."

Silence.

Draco narrowed his eyes impatiently. Had Potter finally lost it? All that stuff during the war had to have done something to him – addled his brains a bit, made him go the way old wonky Lockhart had. Maybe being a hero wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Draco allowed himself a little pleasure in this thought.

"One day Voldemort'll be a legend. Just a fairytale to scare little kids." Harry sighed. "But he was real."

"What's your point, Potter?"

Harry looked at him. Then all of a sudden, Draco was aware of being cut off, somehow, from the rest of London; from the Muggles hurrying down the street and the cars driving carefully through the snow, as if he'd stepped through an invisible barrier into another world that felt more real than any reality he'd ever experienced, and at the center of it Harry, the tower and the wrought iron gates of Parliament with their snaking rose motif.

"Look at the clock face," said Harry, without pointing.

"The what-" But Draco's eyes were already on it, and now he saw how the terrible scar ran down the clock-face of Big Ben, as though someone had dragged a knife across its surface, and how the short hand was pointed at XIII – the thirteenth hour – and how the wrought-iron gates ran slick with dark blood, mixing with the ice.

Then the world up-ended itself in a flurry of snow and London, the tower and the gates returned to normal. A group of teenagers chucked a snowball at Draco's head, then ran off down the street, cackling madly, leaving him swearing and red-faced. When he looked up Harry was in front of him, frowning, as if what he had to say next displeased him greatly.

"Heard you're unemployed."

"Who told you that?" Draco spat.

Harry shrugged without answering, running a hand through his thick hair so that it stuck up at all angles; the untidiness of it irked Draco more. However, close up Harry was not so handsome any more – his face was drawn and serious, as if some secret anguish consumed him. He looked sick.

"How's your mother, Malfoy?" Harry said, finally, without any pretence of nicety, and Draco flinched at the knife-edge to his tone and the icy chill in the breeze, as if it were signalling something that shouldn't have begun; because Draco was a Malfoy and he knew a proposition when it was presented...

**oOo**

She had quit smoking. Having a conscience was a nuisance.

"Flipping, bloody damn," Nox grunted, dumping her third batch of Lonely Hearts Valentine fliers that had been unceremoniously thrust into her hands in a bin at the corner of Pentonville Road. "Apparently it's become a crime to be single these days."

"Ooh, has it really become a crime in the Muggle world? How interesting! Although, I think I should hate to be forced into marriage. It would be like wearing a pair of socks that didn't fit."

Nox looked at her companion out of the corner of her eye. Luna was smiling, her normally misty unfocused gaze a million miles away as they waited for the lights at the crossing to change. Weasley Manor loomed across the road, rising out of its roots like a great gnarled tree with all its ugly twists and turns, the roofs and overgrown garden thick with several inches of snow. Passers by paid it the same amount of attention as they would have paid an empty fish and chips' wrapper.

Luna never said much about her private life; certainly nothing of her approaching wedding. Nox felt her heart thump. It was wrong. Luna loved George – that much was clear to anyone with one eye in their head. But it wasn't her place to go barging in and turning people's private lives upside down. No, she mused with forced certainty, it _wasn't_. Besides she was too sloppy at romance herself to be of any real guidance or help to the girl. That sort of thing was better left to Agony Aunts who wrote columns in attics surrounded by cats and puddings. Yes. Better she didn't say a word. Perhaps Luna would figure it out for herself, she thought, feeling inexplicably guiltily.

"So, um," Nox began, blowing warm air on her chapped knuckles, "know where does this Valentine's m'larky comes from then?"

Luna spun towards her, pale face lit with enthusiasm. "Oh, that's an easy one! It began the day the Pixiwicks finally made chocolates big enough for humans to eat, which was quite the cause for celebration you know. Of course, Muggles say Valentine's Day began when a man called St. Valentine sent letters to his beloved from jail, but that's a big cover up by the Muggle chocolate industries. The Pixiwicks are still fighting for the rights to the holiday. Mind you…" she paused thoughtfully, watching flakes of snow settle on her brightly patterned mittens, "Daddy always says it's really the celebration of a certain day."

"Which day?" Nox asked blithely, scuffing the icy curb of the pavement with her boot.

"The day the Snow Queen smiled for the last time."

Nox turned. "What?"

"Don't you think we've been standing at these traffic lights for a very long time?" Luna huffed. "Oh, I do hate cars. They're very noisy and horribly dirty – like big tin cans full of stink pellets. I don't know how Muggles can bare sitting about in them all the time. I think I'd rather sit inside the belly of a slugworm."

The lights _were_ taking a long time. Luna's prattle was becoming as distant as her pale eyes. The sky had turned dark. For a second, a thought of pure terror swept over Nox like a sweat, crawling over her skin like spiders of ice; a feeling of being watched and for a frantic, crazed moment Nox imagined that an impossibly tall figure, pale and silent and white as snow – the witch Nam had called the _Great Queen_ – was watching them through the bustling streets packed with shoppers and students huddled against the cold. It wasn't normal that it had snowed almost every other day since New Year and it _couldn't_ be coincidence that Weasley Manor had been built by Salazar Slytherin, the Snow Queen's son. But when her grey eyes focused on the tall figure, all Nox could see was a lamppost where an old tramp leaned, playing a rusty tin whistle.

The tramp was a regular fixture on Pentonville Road, but Nox had seen him selling the _Big Issue_ on Leicester Square, Piccadilly and even Kensington before; his leather, studded boots worn and beaten, the black and white collie always lying loyal at his feet. She must have seen the tramp a hundred times before and yet she stared at him as if she were seeing him in focus for the first time. Grey shaggy hair climbed down his head like ivy and met in a tangle of scraggy beard around a scabbed and pointed chin, but his eyes held an alarming keenness about them that made Nox wary. They reminded her of Garm, the wolf giant she had found chained in the Black Forest.

Dark memories filtered into her thoughts of the wolves at Blackwater Hall and the forty lives that had been taken that night.

With a sudden fright she realised the tramp was staring back at her, a wolfish grin on his bristly face. Then he turned his head sharply. Startled, Nox followed his gaze across the road, fervently hoping that he hadn't found Weasley Manor. To her surprise she found herself staring at the neighbouring Angel Hotel.

It was a beautiful building, or would have been had it not been converted into a bank whose stark modern furnishings clashed violently with the Angel Hotel's classical architecture. She followed the tramp's gaze upwards to an open window close to the external dome of the building.

Her heart jumped into her throat. A woman was climbing onto a ledge. No one below had noticed. The bitter wind was whipping up the snow, slightly obscuring the woman from her vision who was teetering on the ledge, her naked toes brushing the guttering beneath. Nox shouted in alarm, but the tramp was playing his tin whistle again and the traffic was rumbling noisily past and Luna continued to prattle on, completely unfazed by the chaos the world had suddenly been thrust into. The tramp's music was wild now, like the drums she had heard in Blackwater Hall; it became the wind and the road and Luna's voice, snaking towards the Angel Hotel like a serpent. Then the woman jumped, her body falling limply towards the ground like a soulless doll.

Unthinking, Nox dived across the road.

A pair of hands caught her underneath her arms and dragged her back onto the pavement before the No.28 had a chance to turn her into a red splat on Pentonville Road. Nox looked up, dazed. Luna was staring at her face. Her expression seemed a little hard, which didn't suit her at all.

"Did you mean to do that? Only I think it was rather a silly thing to do. You're not a very fast runner and I've always thought it better to sit inside a bus rather than underneath one," the young witch said, in a tone that was surprisingly short.

Nox could only stare back at her, at a loss for words. A woman had jumped to her death. _Jumped._ Yet there was no sign of any body on the road. The figure could not have been a ghost. She had been quite solid. A Vengeful, then? But then there was the tramp. And the music…

Nox caught Luna's lingering gaze and realised the girl was squeezing her hand and looking quite a bit more pale than usual. She squirmed with guilt.

"I'm sorry, Luna. It was…" Nox stopped short. Her insides clenched like a fist. Fred and George were right; there was no need to bring Luna into all of this, whatever it was. The last thing any of them wanted was a repeat of Blackwater. The suddenness and completeness of the death they had witnessed still hung over them like a dark cloud.

"I just thought I saw something," said Nox, hastily. "It was nothing, really. Just the ruddy snow playing tricks on my eyes I guess. Or maybe one of those wrackspurt siphons you're always on about, eh?" she laughed, but it was a hollow sound. Lying to Luna left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Luna's scrutinising gaze lingered on her a little longer. Then she nodded her head a little sadly and said in an oddly breezy tone of voice, "Okay. But if you don't mind me saying, I've always thought it's much less lonely sharing your burdens with the people you care about. To pretend otherwise is a bit like shutting your eyes so you can't see people, which is quite silly when you think about it. A bit like inviting a werewolf to bite you." Without a warning, she turned away in one fluid motion and crossed the road towards Weasley Manor.

Nox dawdled on the edge of the pavement for a moment, feeling quite baffled and shameful all at once. Then, stuffing her hands into her pockets, she followed the witch's lead, but not before casting a last glance at the tall lamppost down the street.

The tramp and his dog were gone, but the window at the top of the Angel Hotel was wide open.

**oOo**

It had been a long night; the third in a row of long nights. _The Coliseum_ had left an urgent message on the answering machine the day before, requesting help once again. When the London Philharmonic Orchestra had attempted to enter the main concert hall for a dress rehearsal, they had found each and every door leading inside jammed shut and no amount of Muggle trickery it seemed could open them. And then the music had started. The sound of rusty nails scraped over glass, of chains clanking and saws screeching. That was when the manager, Mr Smollett, had throw off his toupee, stomped on it a few times, then grudgingly picked up the phone and called them.

The job had been no trouble for Fred and George. The Headless Orchestra were an amiable bunch, especially for ghouls, who only insisted that the twins allow them to stay for one last opera. Unfortunately, the opera happened to be Wagner's Ring Cycle. Fifteen hours of Norse Epic and undead, hollering, large breasted Valkyries later, Fred and George limped across the threshold of Weasley Manor and into the room labelled, Phineas Codex (a.k.a. 'the kitchen').

Fred drifted into a chair by the stove and stretched. "Facing Mum's wrath after we jinxed Percy's underwear to turn inside-out while he was still wearing them? Easy. Putting our lives at risk by mocking a mental evil wizard? A synch."

"An entire night spent at the opera? Not so much." George prodded a finger into his remaining ear and wiggled it around in an effort to stop the ringing.

"Wouldn't have been so bad if those Valkyries hadn't sprouted fungus halfway through the first Act," Fred moaned, rubbing his buttocks, which would have felt numb from having to sit on it so long if he'd had one.

"Bit odd, though, isn't it?" George mused.

"What is?"

"I read the Headless Orchestra haven't been heard of in a good century. And that's the second time in two months we've been called out to _The Coliseum_. Normally once we or the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures cover a place, ghouls and whatever else keep off for a bit longer than that."

"Ah well," Fred yawned, closing his eyes, "'ear today, gone tomorrow. You know how it goes, Lugless."

George rolled his eyes at his twin and sat down at the table, flipping through a very tattered book entitled, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. He had borrowed it from Luna only a fortnight ago (his own edition having been blown up during one of the early stages of Humming Humbugs). The book fell open at an illustration of a group of children sitting astride a dark Shetland pony. Beneath it were the words, _'The Goblin Pony'_. George pulled a copy of _The Quibbler_ out of his back pocket and laid it out on the table.

**DERBY DISASTER**

_Seven Muggle Children were tragically found__  
drowned yesterday morning off the west coast of  
Flimby. Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shackleboat  
has insofar ruled out the possibility of the culprit  
responsible being of magical origin._

_OR HAS HE?_

Evidence from esteemed sources working within  
The Department for the Regulation and Control of  
Magical Creatures has revealed that the tragedy  
which has befallen the poor inhabitants of Flimby  
may well have been at the hooves of a beast of  
legendary status; the elusive Goblin Pony – a  
being that, like several others who have recently  
made themselves known in our world again, has  
not been seen by magizoologists in over three  
hundred years.

George closed the book. Normally, he would have paid _The Quibbler's_ conspiracy theories no mind if it weren't for the small fact that it was _right._ There was a definite increase in magical creatures causing havoc in both wizarding and Muggle worlds; creatures of whom had not been seen or heard of in years. George had come across a few himself. There were even rumours of new giant movements from abroad.

George had brought the subject up over lunch with Luna that previous Saturday.

"I wasn't quite sure at first," Luna admitted to him, nibbling on a pumpkin pastie, "but I was in St Petersburg two weeks ago studying traces of the Alkonost bird when I found the rusalky nymphs dancing. It's quite late in the year for them – they normally keep to the Twelve Days and they hardly ever come into cities but, oh, well, winter has been awfully fierce this year and ever since the wolves in the Black Forest things have just felt a little displaced, like someone's gone and forgotten to let Christmas know it's over."

The crease between his eyes deepened and he urged her on.

"Oh, well, you see the Twelve Days of Christmas are a time of old magic, spirits and time," she continued. "They used to say magic hung so thick in the air that even Muggles could see the shades of those who would die in the New Year. It's quite easy for a witch or wizard to detect, unless of course your eyes have been stuffed with cotton, which would make seeing anything quite difficult I suppose."

George sat back on his stool and flexed his fingers, feeling frustrated. Now that Luna had mentioned it, there was still that natural buzz in the air, which always hung around on Hallowe'en and the period between the Winter Solstice and the Twelve Days of Christmas. It felt like pins and needles, as though something in the earth that was meant to be sleeping had decided to stay awake that little bit longer. If _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes'_ books were anything to go buy, the increase in products from their Defence Against the Dark Arts range told him one thing – people were getting scared again. And George had the growing notion it had all begun the moment the clock had struck the twelfth hour on New Year's Eve; the same night the wolves and green fire had torn down Blackwater Hall, the old Snow Queen's tower. Something had broken back then. Something had been released.

"You think this is all related to _her_ then?" Fred asked, idly, after George had conveyed his thoughts on the matter.

"You _don't?_" George countered. He pulled the silver dagger Viktor had given them out of his cloak and laid it on the table, examining it for the hundredth time.

Fred wanted to argue that it was all just coincidence, but even he had to admit he was using that word a lot lately.

At length, he offered, "Let's contact Kingsley."

"Can't." George shook his head. "He's busy. Dedalus wouldn't say what with."

Fred raised his eyebrows. "Must be serious if Dedalus hasn't flapped his gums. Alright, let's pull in ickle Harry Wonder-boy, then."

George shook his head again. "He's been acting a bit barmy in all. Wouldn't even look me in the eye when I was at _the Burrow_ yesterday morning." He paused, then added, "Mum was asking for you."

But Fred ignored him and continued, "Specky git too busy being a hero to remember his dear old Quidditch team, eh?" He gave a derisive snort, then his silver face broke into an easy grin. "Ah well! Nothing you and me can't handle, mate."

"Speak for yourself," George retorted, drily, "a seventy-year-old warlock who's lived off a sublime mix of cack and lard is likely fitter than I am right now."

Fred cackled. "Don't sell yourself short just yet, Georgie!"

George stared at him solemnly over the edge of _The Quibbler_. Their mother had never stepped foot in Weasley Manor. She had never even acknowledged its existence, just as she had been blind to Fred's ghost for the first two months of his returning. As far as she was concerned they still rented the apartment above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley, which had long since been sold and was now occupied by the twins' best friend, Lee Jordan. George knew this had broken something in Fred. He had always needed their mother perhaps that little bit more than George did, though he would never have admitted it. Too stubborn to return to _the Burrow_ any more than was absolutely necessary, Fred seemed content to build up the walls of Weasley Manor and keep a smaller family safe inside them.

In the days that had followed the Battle of Hogwarts, George, too, had wanted to remove himself from his family completely, to escape anything that reminded him of what life had been and should have remained, but if anything it had left him more bitter and angry. Even now perhaps he wasn't the only one who was avoiding _the Burrow_ and everything that it meant_._ He knew he had never really confronted the reality of Fred's death. Instead he'd let the grief boil and fester, as the Truth Mirror had reflected in its glass. For so long it had just been he and Fred; Gred and Forge; interchangeable, two of a kind and always a pair, even now that one was dead, but even that was changing. Every minute brought them closer to end of their first year in Weasley Manor. If the seven shards of glass, each a deadly sin, were not found, Fred would be exorcised and become one of the shadow-folk. Then George would truly lose him.

No, now wasn't a time to face his own demons, he thought grimly. They had work to do.

An apple hit him square between the eyes.

"Oi, come on, Lugless! Snap out of it!" Fred laughed, leaning over his twin who now lay spread-eagled on the floor. "Told you reading the Quibbler'd noodle your noggin' a bit. Think any harder and your conk'll fall off."

"You what?" George groaned, sitting up.

"Well, something to that effect." Fred shrugged, carelessly. "You forgetting we have guests alighting from yonder lands?"

No sooner had he said it did a whoosh of emerald green flames jet out of the fireplace and a tall lanky figure, who looked to be primarily made out of knees and elbows, stepped primly onto the hearth. Before Percy could open his mouth, more tongues of green flame shot out of the fireplace and a small, grubby faced boy propelled into Percy's back, sending both crashing onto the floor in a heap.

"Wotcher Uncle George, Uncle Fred!" Teddy smiled, scrambling excitedly to his feet amidst Percy's gangly limbs.

"Oh, for pity's sake! Didn't I tell you to wait thirty seconds?" Percy huffed, picking the small grubby faced boy up and dusting the soot from his jeans. "Section A-B of the Floo Traveller's Preliminary Guidebook to be Read by All Underage Wizards specifically states-"

"But I can't _read_, can I!" Teddy protested, pulling away from Percy.

"Nonsense," Percy sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "Why at your age I had already read chapters one to seventeen of _Hogwarts, a History_."

"A badge you should wear with honour, Perce," said Fred seriously. "Shall we nail it to your head just in case you forget?"

"Don't be daft, Fred," said George. "As if he'd ever forget a thing like that."

"Oh, very funny."

"You playing delivery boy, eh? What happened to Andromeda?" George asked, but already knew the answer by the look on his elder brother's face.

"Being that it is Nymphadora's birthday today, I'm afraid Andromeda is not in any fit state to leave the house," Percy said, looking askance at Teddy who was trying all the taps on the ivory fountain and grinning hysterically. "Ginny's gone along with Mother to visit her. She won't be alone. She sends her gratitude that you could put Teddy up for the night here…"

Percy wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked about the bombsight that was the twins' kitchen, the surrounding herb gardens a jungle of weeds. The general chaotic mess of Weasley Manor depressed him. He was certain that the world ought to work in a more efficient way and surely that had to start with the unidentifiable gunk that had him stuck to the floor. Nevertheless, since the events of New Year he had made it a point of coming around more often. Bill had been right; the twins were definitely involved in some nefarious plot.

George merely smiled, a knowing gleam in his eye. "What's wrong Perce? Are you scared Teddy might catch something here?"

Percy drew him a withering look. "Thankfully idiocy is not a communicable disease."

"Pompousness is, mind," Fred muttered.

"Honestly, how can you live in this festering pit? Mould on the walls, mildew in the sink…and those are _not _rat droppings!" Percy exclaimed, pointing at a cluster of marble-sized presents on the floor. "When was the last time you cleaned in here?"

"_Clean?_" Fred pulled a disgusted face, while George gave an unapologetic shrug, rubbing sleep out of his eye.

"We've been a bit busy, you know."

"Obviously." Percy eyed the contents of a large pot on the stove warily. "What _was _that?"

"It's not so much what it was as what it's evolved into," George commented over his shoulder. "Nox isn't much of a cook."

It wasn't that Nox was a bad cook. It was that she was so bad she had actually managed to find several entirely new flavours which danced on your palate like an elephant wearing stilettos. The previous week she had attempted to make a stew. The pot still sat on the back ring of the cooker, which George and Percy were currently peering into. It led a private life of its own and ate spoons.

"I think we should give it a name," George said at last. "Anything that excretes that kind of odour deserves some sort of title. Maybe we could market it to hags as bath gel."

"Or dish it up for our dear secretary," Fred posed, grinning darkly.

Percy arched his eyebrows. Then he reached into his cloak and brought out a small envelope, stamped with a red wax seal. "Yes, well, I'll be going now I think. But, erm, I was wondering…hoping rather, if you could see your way fit to… That is, if you wouldn't mind possibly…could you…"

He swallowed.

The twins leered.

"Yessss?"

Percy frowned and clicked his tongue in a deeply disapproving manner. "Oh, Hells Bells, never mind!"

But Teddy had snapped the card out of Percy's hands before he could slip it safely back inside his cloak. "To… Nox," he read carefully. "Who's Nox?"

Percy groaned, throwing his hands up. Fred and George were looking as though their birthdays had arrived early.

"My, my, George, I think our dear up-standing brother might have a thing for our nutty detective," Fred drawled. "The usurper!"

"The blaggard! How dare you steal our wife!" George shouted, pulling the ladle from the pot of previously-stew. "I will give you the honour of a quick and painless death."

"It's not a laughing matter!" Percy snapped, snatching the card away from his brothers and turning haughtily towards the fireplace. "I have no such intentions or romantic inclinations of any kind towards-"

The kitchen door swung open and Luna and Nox came into the room. Percy let out a small squeak of despair.

"Evidently," Fred told him, coolly.

Percy scowled, then cleared his throat noisily and said in the manliest voice he could muster, "_Hullo._" He tried again. "That is, good morning, Nox."

"Bravo, Percy," the twins whispered behind him, applauding silently. "Splendid execution, what!"

Nox's head tilted. She squinted at him slightly, then smiled. Percy knew it was her best effort, too, but it wasn't her real smile, the one he liked the most that crinkled her eyes and didn't make her look at all pretty, except to him. He could tell she was uneasy, distracted. Maybe Fred could tell too, because Percy received no witty remark when he stumbled forwards to shake Nox's hand and tripped over Teddy, who was crouched on the floor after discovering the source of the marble-sized droppings.

"Morning, Percy. We haven't seen you in a while. Staying for lunch are you?" she asked, ignoring Fred who was shaking his head and mouthing frantically at her. "I can heat up the stew if you want."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely," Luna agreed. "I brought along some Freshwater Plimpies just in case. They should make a nice addition to the stew." She beamed at Percy convincingly. "I was hoping I might see you today. Neville gave me that anti-fungal remedy you were enquiring after. It should help straight away with almost no side-effects, only that it tickles quite a bit, a little like ants crawling down your-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Luna," Percy interjected hastily, edging back towards the fireplace. "Afraid I can't stay though. Important business at the Ministry you know. Very hush-hush, of course."

"Aren't you doing anything for Valentine's tomorrow, Perce?" asked George.

Fred snorted. "In a pig's eye."

"As a matter of fact I received a charming invitation out to dinner just this morning," replied Percy importantly, drawing himself up.

"Oh, that's nice," said Fred pleasantly. "Is she blind?"

"She is not!"

"Ignore the snarking little snollygosters, Percy," said Nox, slipping heavily into a chair, her vocabulary of insults having improved since living with the twins. "They're only irritable because they had to sustain a night of culture."

"You mean a night of torture," George corrected.

"That sounds cool!" Teddy beamed, allowing his discovery to crawl back under the cooker. "Can we all go?"

"_No._" the twins chorused.

Percy huffed and picked up a sprinkle of Floo powder from a bag sitting beside the hearth. "I shall call round tomorrow to collect Teddy around Noon. Perhaps if you're lucky I'll bring a duster."

"We've got very different ideas about what constitutes luck," George retorted.

"Enjoy your date, Percival!" Fred waved brightly as the emerald flames engulfed his brother. Then he turned sharply towards Nox. "Alright, what's got your wand in a knot?"

"I don't have a wand."

"Your noose, then."

"I didn't realise I was in the possession of a noose either."

"A _metaphorical_ one."

"And you're certainly having fun with those today."

"Blimey, yes, alright, al-"

"I think I'm going out," Nox cut him off, getting to her feet.

"Out? You just got _in_."

"Becalm yourself, man," she said drolly, "that's what doors are made for."

"Not to interrupt this lover's spat," George interrupted, "but it looks like we've misplaced our bleeding charge."

Nox shook her head. "In only ten minutes? I didn't think that was possible, but I guess congratulations are in order," she amended, with a mocking lilt.

"He shouldn't have gone too far, I think. Should I check the unmarked, abandoned well in the garden?" Luna enquired vaguely, when the tall, spider-like secretary of the Paranormal Detective's agency stepped into the kitchen, holding Teddy by the scruff of his neck in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

George grinned. "Problem solved."

"Lemme go yeh grimy goozler or I'll jinx yer nose off!" Teddy hollered, struggling violently.

"I believe this specimen of pint-sized humanity must be yours, Mr Weasley." Caithion deposited the small wizard onto the floor, peering down his nose at the boy as though Teddy was no more than a minor discrepancy that had to be squished.

The boy scowled. "What'choo lookin' at?"

"Your hair is blue," Caithion stated.

"Duh."

"Hair isn't habitually blue."

"So?"

"It offends me."

"Your face offends me!"

Caithion inhaled deeply on the stub of his cigarette, breathing delicate smoke rings over the boy's head. "_Good._"

"You certainly have a way with kids," Nox muttered, as the thin Irishman sauntered past her.

"The pealing spawn, how I despise them," he drawled. "There seems to be quite a commotion outside. You might like to take a look."

Nox looked alert. "Where?"

"The Angel Hotel, I believe," Caithion told her. "Unless my ears deceived me, it's right up your alley. It is an old building after all. Very old. Even survived the Great Fire."

Nox caught Fred's eyes. He gave her his practiced devilish smile and lowered his head in a knowing, impish way that made him look unbearably smug. There was no good hiding anything from a Weasley twin.

She pushed her flopping fringe off her forehead and mumbled to herself, "Smartarse."

**oOo**

A small crowd of people had gathered outside the bank situated on the first floor of the Angel hotel, customers and workers alike standing around and clucking like hens, muttering things like, 'I heard it was a fire upstairs this time', 'noise up in the attic', or, 'third time this week something's happened, bleeding place is haunted if you ask me,' and 'that people believe things like that in this day and age is beyond reason!'

Fred and Nox exchanged an amused glance.

"We'll never get in unnoticed," she said at last.

"_You_ won't."

"I could sneak in."

"My speciality."

"I could land my arse in jail," Nox amended.

"A waste of a fine arse." He nodded solemnly.

"There could be jail time, or worse, public humiliation, the sullying of my good name," she continued.

"Discharged, disgraced, disembowelled." He propped his hands on his waist. "Right, shall we go then?"

Nox bowed. "After you."

A narrow path ran between Weasley Manor and the Angel Hotel, leading towards what had once been a shared courtyard and stables, but had been long-since separated by a tall sandstone wall. Nox scaled a shaky block of dustbins and scrambled over the wall, landing in cobbled yard overgrown with weeds and reeking of bin juice and cats.

"Looks a lot less welcoming from this side," Nox commented, staring up at the dark, imposing dome. She recalled the woman standing on the edge of the ledge, how hollow and sunken her eyes had looked. A shiver ran down her spine.

"You sure you saw someone jump?"

Nox nodded firmly. "Positive."

"And she was definitely a fleshie?"

"Looked like it. I thought maybe a Vengeful…?"

Fred shook his head. "Can't be. We would have heard about a Vengeful living next door by now. They don't tend to keep their traps shut for long."

"Sounds familiar."

"That was an undue stab at my indefatigable good character," he tutted, running a hand rakishly through his silver hair. "But I'll forgive you, my lady love, as I'm nothing if not charitable."

Nox paused in her search for a way in, lips quirking at the new appellation. "Lady, is it now? Been at that damn _Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches _book again I see. You'll choke on your charm one of these days. Oh wait," she smirked, "too late."

Fred grinned. "Ouch. Harsh, but fair."

He leaned back, watching the detective as she snuck around the back of the old hotel, searching for a way in that didn't involve breaking locks. Running across the city hunting the paranormal mixed with Mrs Weasley's cooking had thickened Nox out a bit during the last few weeks. She was still a bit on the gangly side and far from being a ravishing beauty, but there was what his mother called 'healthy meat on the bones' now and a confidence in her stride, which made his empty chest constrict uncomfortably. And she definitely smiled more, Fred mused. Then a small voice in the back of his head wondered if Nox had really changed at all or if it was simply that he was _looking_ now, but to ears like Fred's small voices are often unheard.

"Sodding, stupid England." She kicked the door irritably. "You wouldn't find locks like this in Scotland."

"Watch it with the country, Muglug," he warned, "them's fighting words."

She smirked. "Just flexing our rivalry repartee. Here, that window's open a gap. I think I can lever it up and squeeze through." She turned and faced him. "You might as well scout ahead and see what you can find."

He sized her up critically. "You think this is a Vice, don't you?"

"Maybe," she answered truthfully, then added, "I hope so."

"But right next door all this flipping time? Crikey, that'd be depressing. Bit of a coinci-" He caught himself before he said it and swore, but she had already caught the gist of his meaning.

"Not if Viktor was right and your curse has something to do with Salazar and his mother. Although that doesn't really explain the location of the other shards, I guess. Have you dug up any more information about Gudrun that we can use?"

Fred had the grace to pretend to look sheepish.

"_Fred!_"

"What? Bloody Nora, look, I'm no scholar," he protested. "I have more respect for myself than that."

"Good thing one of us does," she grunted, heaving the window open. "Now get your arse inside, Weasley."

"Is that a direct order, boss?" he said in a falsetto voice, fluttering his eyelashes fetchingly. "It's such a pleasure working beneath you."

"_In._"

"Alright, alright! Keep your hair on," Fred cackled, drifting towards the door. It only took him seconds to realise something was awry, that he had taken a very wrong turn. And then he fell, tumbling through the darkness like a lump of marble, tripping and flying head over heels until he landed face down in the ground. The dark here was pitcher than any night he had ever witnessed and there was a smell of damp earth and rotting wood, and a horrible sense of something waiting, like the inside of an empty grave. Then suddenly, in a lightning strike, searing pain struck him like a Cruciatus Curse, tiny molten needles pricking the memories of nerves and tissue. It struck him again and again like a hot lash, forcing him to his knees, and an awful sense that something important was beginning to sever – a binding thread – struck him worse than any physical pain. He forced his eyes open. The sky above was crimson red except for the great patches of black where carrion birds swooped and karked over a barren plain of bones and great tombs jutting out of the earth. The wind howled around him, a deafening, crashing tumult, and riding on its back were the hollow cries of Inferi, Shadow-folk and those who had lost their souls to a Dementor's kiss.

Fear mingled with repulsion, pain and shock. This wasn't _right _– this wasn't where he was meant to go.

"What's a stupid ghost doin' walkin' into a _marked_ building like that for?! Don't you know it's protected? All these stately buildings has got young bones buried in their foundations t' keep sorts like you _out_. Now look where we are!" Frost's voice crackled irritably in his ear. "This 'ere's the **Grigheim**, City of the Lost."

"_How do I get out?_" Fred gasped.

"Grab me stupid hand!" Frost snapped. "S'what it's there for!"

Fred looked up at the blood red sky and saw a familiar pale blue arm, disjointed, as though broken in several places, reaching down for him. He snatched it without arguing, trying to keep his grip on the slippery hand covered in tiny ice crystals, and felt himself being jolted upwards; the same lurching sensation he'd often felt in the middle of the night after a bad dream. And then he was in the Angel Hotel's courtyard again, the dome looming far above his head.

"_Fred!_ God, Fred…" Nox was leaning over him, her face ashen and all eyes. "Don't you dare, don't bloody dare, 'm warning you-" she choked, her voice turning raw.

Fred groaned. He felt hot and cold, and sick all at once, which couldn't be right – by every law of nature he shouldn't be _feeling_ anything. His eyes darted around the courtyard. There was no sign of his rescuer.

Nox was trembling, her eyebrows drawn so tightly together they nearly met in the middle.

He moaned. "…Hurts…"

"Where?" she stammered.

"Right…here…" he said delicately, and raised his hand to his mouth, a tiny smirk of pure deviousness tugging at the corners.

Nox gaped at him, incredulously. "You...You …complete…royal – _BASTARD!_"

Fred swallowed. It was surprising how much Nox could resemble a twin-headed, snargle-toothed Manticore when enraged. Her grey eyes blazed at him.

"YOU STUPID, SORRY, PARASITIC SACK OF ENTRAILS!" she hollered. "How _dare_ you! You scared the living daylights out of me! What kind of sick prank was-" Then Nox stopped, and studied him intently. "Your cloak's torn," she stated, looking at the shimmering, transparent material, aghast. "And you're bleeding. How can that… what happened to you? Are you okay?"

"Honestly?" he gave a weak smile. "I think having my brain pulled out through my rear end would've been a Swedish massage compared to that."

"I heard you scream," she said, her pink chapped lips setting in a hard line.

"It was a manly holler for aid," Fred corrected mulishly, feeling his masculine pride wounded.

"I couldn't find you. You just disappeared into thin air before you even reached the door." Nox wiped a trembling hand over her face. "Y'daft bampot."

Fred continued to simply stare at her, watching as her hand moved away from her face and she drew in a relieved sigh, and smiled shakily at him. Then Fred latched his hand firmly over her right one, wishing suddenly that he could close his own fingers around it and keep it for himself.

Nox did not notice this small change. She got to her feet. "Can you walk-er…float?"

Fred nodded and hauled himself to his feet. He felt heavy and feverish, and wondered again if it was even possible for a ghost to feel like that; for a ghost to feel _anything_? He remembered the cold sense of something inside him threatening to snap. His thoughts instantly turned to George. He staggered.

"I'll be fine," he said grimly, waving off Nox. "Let's just get back."

**oOo**

They scowled at each other across the table. They were sitting in a small, shabby café off Tottenham Court Road. It was the same rundown place Harry had entered with Ron and Hermione the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding; the night Scrimgeour had been murdered. Harry had not realised it at first. He had simply started walking without a word to his companion and had not stopped until he had entered the café and sat down.

Draco looked disgusted with the layer of grease on the table and merely ignored the young waitress who shuffled over to them, chewing her gum and generally looking bored with life.

"What can I get yeh?"

"Coffee, thanks. Black," said Harry, with a quick smile.

His gaze settled on Draco's crumpled shirt, the cheap useless cloak. Harry fought the small sliver of satisfaction snaking inside him. A part of him snapped that it served Draco right – let him have a taste of his own medicine for once. It was all he deserved. But another voice, one that sounded depressingly like Hermione's, was more pitying. The Draco he had known from school would never have followed him here. The man was desperate.

'_So am I,'_ Harry thought, despondently.

Draco's pale fists clenched together on the table. "You going to sit their looking pleased with yourself all day, Potter, or are you going to tell me what you're after."

The waitress sat Harry's coffee down in front of him with a lingering look, as though she was remembering something she shouldn't have, then turned away, looking confused.

Harry swallowed a burning mouthful of coffee. Then he said, "You were in Blackwater Hall at New Year."

Draco's narrow face darkened. "Yeah, what of it?"

"You had a run in with Fred and George Weasley."

"So?"

"They saved your life," Harry said coolly. "You _could_ say you owe them a life debt."

He raised his green eyes to Draco, allowing himself a sting of pleasure at the sudden frisson of terror flitting across the pale man's face. Draco said nothing, sitting rigid in his seat and scowling.

Harry continued. "I have a job for you. If you're lucky it might pay off some of the debts your family owes, seeing as few people will do business with the name of Malfoy these days. It must be even harder, with Lucius out of the works." His tone held no sympathy.

"What d'you know about my family?!" Draco hissed, his cheeks flushing in outrage, but he kept his voice low, his eyes darting around the café. "Got nothing better to do than spy on me these days? I suppose all that hero-worshipping must get a bit tiresome, you need something else to fill up your precious time. Well I can tell you this, _Potter_, my family is just fine."

Draco pushed himself away from the table and began to stalk away from him icily.

"What do you know about Gudrun, Draco?" said Harry calmly, putting the cup to his mouth again and blowing softly. "What do you know about the Founders' Wars?" He lifted his gaze, his green eyes sharp. "What do you know about the One Word?"

Draco stopped and turned, with a strange look. Harry's face was drawn, he realised, his skin clammy. Without really understanding why, Draco sat down again.

"Gudrun was Salazar Slytherin's mother, one of the last manipulators of the old rune magic. She was killed by Gryffindor's typical underhanded trickery," he said grudgingly, voice rich with distaste. "What else do you want to know?"

To Draco's surprise, Harry laughed, a low, humourless sound. "Glad to hear you know your history. To be expected of a _Malfoy_, of course. And the wars?"

Draco snorted. "Which ones?" Harry didn't answer, so he continued, irritably, "Gudrun waged war on Hogwarts. That's all I know. She wanted something Helga Hufflepuff had. Her cup, probably. Don't know what you're on about some bleeding 'one word' for. Never heard of it."

Harry had steepled his fingers and was nodding to himself. "Not her cup… what was _in_ her cup…"

"What?"

Harry ignored his question. Draco felt annoyed. This was a waste of time. His old rival had obviously gone quite mad. He felt cold and miserable, the previous snow shower having soaked through the thin material of his cloak, trickling into every crease of him. But there was no point in going home. The Odgen's would be open by now anyway, and his mother would be past caring either way.

Harry was watching him closely, Draco realised with a start. His green eyes looked at him so intently that he began to feel hotly self-conscious. His old fears returned – Harry must have thought he looked cheap, that he hadn't ordered a drink because he couldn't pay. Anger swelled inside him like a boil.

But Harry only said, "You like travelling, Draco?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Are you winding me up?"

Harry drained the last of his coffee then leaned back into his chair, looking tired. "You've probably heard there's going to be a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards in Paris in a fortnight – the first in sixty-two years."

Draco had not heard, but he couldn't allow himself to let Harry know this knowledge had bypassed him, so he nodded curtly.

"The Ministry needs wizards to escort I.C.W representatives to France safely," Harry concluded, "which is where you come in."

"Don't they have their own bodyguards to bring them here?"

"Their Aurors are busy," he said tightly, an edge to his voice.

Draco eyed him, warily. "If you think I believe for a moment that you trust me to run some stupid errand for you, Potter, you've got another thing coming."

Harry laughed, bitterly. "Oh, I don't trust you Draco, not one measly bit. But what was it you always used to say – 'it's not what you know but who you know'? Well, maybe you're right. In this case," he said, with a measured stare. "You're lucky the name Malfoy still holds some sway in parts of the world. People trust you, though Merlin knows why. Kingsley thought so too. Believe me", he glowered, "I did everything in my power to change his mind."

"Don't push your luck."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You'll do it then?"

Every ounce of breeding compelled him to say no, but his ego and his pride convinced Draco otherwise. He realised, with some amount of satisfaction, that Harry had come to him for help_._ Draco still had something that no amount of heroics could ever achieve – family; _lineage_. He turned his pointed nose upwards and said with a casual shrug, "Fine. You're on. But answer this first," he said, trying not to sound too curious, "what's all this got to do with Gudrun and the Founders' wars? And the clock face back there." He didn't want to admit it, but what he'd seen at the gates of Parliament had been real; he was certain of it. "What the hell's going on here, Potter?"

The look he received was dark and hard.

Then Harry said, "You'd better pray you don't find out."

**oOo**

Caithion barely had time to light the cigarette at his lips before Nox dashed up the path towards him.

"Impeccably fast work, my dear. Find anything?"

"Nothing, outt've the way!" she said fiercely, pushing past him and flinging open the door to Weasley Manor. The door slammed shut behind her.

"Ah."

He breathed thick smoke in the damp air. It drifted down the garden path and above the heads of the shoppers and traffic on Pentonville Road. Two rooks were sitting on top of a lamppost, their beady eyes watching him intently. They bobbed on the lamp for a moment, flapping their ragged black wings hesitantly, with a harsh irregular chorus. The wind was rising.

"So the Walker returns," he muttered, with a twisted half-smile that held no amusement. "The storm is getting worse."

The rooks were more agitated now, hopping on the spot and cawing frenziedly. Then suddenly they dived, a shrieking tumult, shedding feathers and growing talons as long as a tiger's, their reptilian tails snapping the wind as they swooped towards Weasley Manor. Caithion reached into his jacket, long hands coiling around cold, black metal, when snakes of grey mist suddenly erupted from beneath the threshold of the house, surging upwards and coiling to form the heads of a badger and a serpent; the whirling black shapes disappeared into smoke and a cloud of feathers.

A moment later, the rooks dropped dead at his feet.

"Much worse." Caithion crunched a beak beneath the heel of his boot. "The grey world will slip into the dark before the dawn comes." He smiled, this time a touch of amusement lit his eyes. "Lord what fools these mortals be."

Across the road, the tramp began to play again.

**oOo**

**

* * *

  
**

**A/N:** I hope that chapter was to your liking guys! I'm a little nervous about what people might think of my Draco and Harry, especially as it's the first time I've ever written Harry. Ah well! I've been working on the next chapter and even the casebook after that, but don't expect anything for a fortnight – I have my exams on (flails). Wish me luck! I'll need it. Damn Vikings…

**Fic Notes:**

_- The Angel Hotel:_ The Angel Hotel is a real building situated in Islington and worked as a coaching in from Jacobean times.  
-_ The Houses of Parliament:_ That no one can die in the houses of Parliament is indeed an old myth (which Kat gave me – cheers, oh dainty peachy one!).  
-_ The Fisher King:_ A character from Arthurian legend; he is the wounded guardian of the Grail who Perceval, the Knight, must save.  
-_ The Goblin Pony:_ A French fairytale taken from _The Grey Faerie_ book, 1929.  
- _Young Bones:_ Only touched on briefly in this chapter. The bones of young children and babies used to be buried in the foundations of stately houses or castles in order to ward of ghosts and evil spirits.


	24. Casebook 04: The Plague Doctor

**A/N:** Yikes! I really can't apologise enough for this ridiculous lack of updates. Unfortunately my excuse is the same as always – university takes up a lot of my time. When I started writing TVPD I was on a gap year, so I was able to update more or less regularly. Alas! No more. I'm so sorry guys! But that doesn't for a moment mean I won't be finishing this story – especially when I'm so close to the end, bwaha!

**Don't forget – MAY 9****th****, Re-Fredding Day!**

Oh, and review replies are at the bottom this time.

* * *

_'"A sweet apple tree," he whispered,  
"growing by the river. Who eats its magical  
Fruit now? When my reason was whole  
I lay at its foot… I have wandered fifty years  
Amongst lawless men. After wealth, after  
The songs of bards I have been so long in  
The Waste Land not even the devils can  
Lead me astray."'_

– Merlin in Catherine Fisher's,_ Corbenic_

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook 04: The Plague Doctor

'_To those few, like myself, who enjoy nothing more than prodding the universe (in addition to a nice Tunnocks tea cake at elevenses), the subject of Death is worth great pondering and indeed there is no subject on earth that captures our imaginations more fully – perhaps more so than ever in these grave times.'_

'_Witches and wizards whose affections are set too much on the things of this world often return to wander their former haunts, friends or lovers. The same can be said of Muggles, though these poor souls, having no magic to contain the imprint they leave behind on this world, are often wild, capricious spirits notorious for wreaking havoc.'_

'_Despite our endeavours, our knowledge of Death remains like an old sock full of holes that we can't quite bring ourselves to discard. One thing we can understand, however; the walking dead want one thing and that is to return to the living.' _

'_That is why they stay behind.'_

- Edward Balthazar McRozen,_ Death and his Dog_, 1977

**oOo**

'_Be bold, be bold  
But not too bold,__  
Run for your life  
Lest your heart run cold.'_

'_You're bold, you're bold,  
You're far too bold  
You can run for your life,  
But the gates will hold…'_

Fred's eyelids were heavy. There was music drifting in the air, strong silver threads of note that caught in his throat with a sting. A violin playing. Old 'lore called it the instrument of Death, although anyone who knew Death personally could tell you this was not the case. If there was one thing Death could not understand, it was music.

Fred knew he was dreaming. He remembered crashing out in the tattered old armchair beside the kitchen stove where George was solemnly keeping watch after the incident at the Angel Hotel. He also knew that ghosts did not dream. They could certainly sleep – some could even sleep for months, years even. Fred remembered how he and George and Lee had been woken up their first year in Hogwarts by the Fat Friar snoring like a giant with a bellyful of rum.

He looked around.

No… This was definitely a dream.

Jack Frost was sitting on the semi-constructed western wall of Hogwarts with his pale legs dangling over the edge, the bow in his right hand sweeping across the four strings of the violin resting on his left shoulder.

"Sounds like you're strangling a cat with that thing," Fred remarked coolly, poking his ear with his index finger. "You call that music?"

Frost regarded him with an indignant pout. "Ah call it _Bach!_"

"Bless you."

"Oh, now the dead man's a comedian, is he? Ooda-bloody-lally." The wiry elf put the bow down, grumbling._ "_Weren't smilin' so much when you were in Grigheim, yeh wormy bugger."

"Yeah, well, I've had better holidays. Weather was bloody awful."

The old manic glint lit Frost's eye again. "Walkin' into a protected buildin' all willy-nilly like that. Don't know much about bein' dead now, do yeh?"

Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "Not much to know really. Lie around, feed the worms, spook an unsuspecting flat-chested Muggle out her wits. There's no prizes for being dead or I reckon everyone'd do it."

"Everyone _does_ do it," Frost pointed, "eventually." He paused and gave him a beady-eyed, suspicious look with his head tilted to one side like a bird. "What'choo doin' here?"

"I came to ask you out on a date," said Fred sarcastically. "I'm _sleeping_, obviously, you great frosty prat."

Frost genuinely looked surprised at this reply. His shoulders slumped and he sighed dramatically, blowing clouds of cold air through his frosty nostrils. "You're a strange bunch, you lot. A Muggle that can see magic folks, a ghost that dreams, a seven sins curse. You're all bleedin' impossible."

Fred beamed with pride. "Cheers."

With a series of jolty and alarmingly fast movements, the wiry elf swung his legs over the half-built Hogwarts wall and landed in a crouching position. "What d'yeh want?"

Fred hadn't exactly thought about that, but now that he had found Jack Frost he realised he had an opportunity to squeeze some information out of the elf. But even he found it difficult to word the question he really wanted to ask; the vision he had had of Jack Frost in Ditchwater Nam's shop. When Jack had been alive he had been Helga Hufflepuff's younger brother, Puck, and committed a great crime by taking his friend's heart to save his own life. Broaching that question would be tricky, even for him. Fred wasn't entirely convinced Jack would remember his past, either. _Could_ you remember that far back? After all, Jack – _Puck – _had been dead for over one thousand years.

"You mentioned Grigheim before," he said, finally. "Seeing as I'm not as clued up on underground hell-holes as you are, you can fill me in a bit."

Frost grinned and his blue eyes swivelled madly in separate directions. "S'like ah said, it's the City of the Lost, the other end of the headstone, _'where not even the bone-fires burn',_ if yeh wanna gets all poetic about it. There's an entrance to it in every graveyard, not that ah think yeh'll be wantin' to return anytime soon." The elf smiled wickedly. "That's where all the ghosts that get bad exorcisms go. _Nasty_ thing that is."

"So's having your nose hexed onto your arse," said Fred matter-of-factly, with not a small hint of a threat. "And what about you, then – playing good Samaritan and saving my arse? Not that I mind it being saved. Mind you, I could have done with it being rescued a few years earlier."

Frost turned his nose up. "S'nothin' personal, just evening the odds a bit."

"It's personal when it happens to be my soul you're dragging out of _what's-it-called_."

"Grigheim!"

"That's what I –" Fred paused, listening carefully. "Shh… Listen. There it is again… What is it?"

They stopped in silence, ears straining in the closing darkness. The skeletal construction of Hogwarts was disappearing. Small voices were singing, their song so faint it could have been mistaken for the wind.

'_Be bold, be bold,  
But not too bold…'_

Jack Frost cackled, prodding the innards of his nose with one icy finger. "That? Heh. That's your neighbour, the old Angel."

"Sounds like a nursery rhyme." Fred gave an involuntary shiver. "Not like the kind Mum used to sing, mind…"

For a flickering moment Fred fancied he saw a figure in the dim light; a figure in a long black cloak and hat, who walked with purpose and carried a case. And from his face protruded a long sickle-like beak.

'_You're bold, you're bold  
You're far too bold…_  
_Run for your life,__  
Lest your heart turn cold!'_

Fred's eyes flashed open. George was slouched in the armchair across from him, Luna's Zogbob snoring blissfully in his lap, small sparks of flame shooting from its scaly nostrils. He could hear the gently gurgle of the kitchen's fountain and the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock down the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief, then smacked his lips with a puzzled frown.

A heavy scent of iron and thyme hung stickily in the air.

**oOo**

Teddy Lupin loved stories. There was something he found addictive about tales where monsters and bogeymen jumped out of closets or cracks in the pavements to drag dim-witted children into the dark. Nox supposed these stories must have been quite a lot more frightening for children in the wizarding world, who were readily assured such things did indeed exist. This form of discipline was therefore very effective, though perhaps not in the case of Fred and George who had sadly proven themselves almost entirely un-scareable by any normal methods (unless, of course, you were Charlie Weasley and sock puppet named Gorge).

"…And then the woodsman chopped the poor wolf's head off, whose only crime had been wanting to render a smug little know-it-all girl limb from limb. Thus, Little Red Riding Hood got off scot free, despite charges of ecological vandalism and the indirect slaughter of an endangered species, proving that the hero, no matter how inanely credulous and suicidally thick, always survives the story. Even if they're a jerk." She closed the book. "The end."

Teddy eyed her defiantly. "That's not the version _I've_ heard."

"There's been a few," Nox admitted with a shrug. "Which one have you heard?"

"The one where they all snuff it," said Teddy, grinning toothily.

She smirked. "Ah, if only all fairytales had happy endings. Right, better get some sleep now," she said, straightening out his bed sheets.

Nox didn't know much about children at all, except that most of them were smug and knew a lot more about the world than most adults liked to admit. There was something irrefutably likeable about Teddy, though. She wondered what his parents had been like before the war had torn them out of his life.

"Can't you tell another one?" asked Teddy, beaming at her and sticking his tongue through his teeth in a sickeningly sweet display. "Go on! I wanna hear about the one about the _Unlooked-for Prince_," he continued, oblivious to her withering stare, "then the_ Goat-faced Girl_. Oh! Oh! Then the _Screaming Skull of_-"

"Blimey, don't bother Ted. You aren't going to get any decent kind of story out of Nox, here," said Fred. He was leaning in the doorway of George's room where they had set up an extra bed for Teddy to sleep in. "Imagination's all dried up like crusty bread, see. Pity."

Nox glared. "I see you're awake and back to your usual charming self. How lovely," she muttered, though she couldn't help but feel relieved to see him up and floating about again. "I'll have you know my storytelling ability is unsurpassed."

"Sure," said Fred, "if you're comparing yourself to a mute."

"Alright, fine." She got up from Teddy's bed and strode towards Fred, planting a finger in his icy chest. "Let's hear _you_ do better, you undead muskrat of a cheeseblock."

Fred's eyes gleamed. "I humbly accept your challenge. And I won't need the help of one of your measly books either." He floated over to Teddy's bed, who was sitting cross-legged with the sheets miraculously having tangled themselves around him again. "Let's see now…" He snapped his fingers. "Right! This one's inspired by my dear lugless twin. _The Grincense of Gronotolis…_"

Nox arched her eyebrows high. "The _what?_"

"_Shhh!_" Teddy hissed.

"Naff off, Nox! Right, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Fred began, with exaggerated pompousness, "The Grincense of Gronotolis is a creature all should fear! It has no legs, it has no arms. In fact… it's just an ear." There was an audible squawking as Nox choked on a lungful of air. He ignored her. "One thing I'll say for certain is the way it kills its snacks. The Grincense pounces from the dark and drowns its prey in wax! Try saying that five times really fast when you're drunk."

"That's just blatant gibberish."

"Easy to mistake gibberish for genius," said Fred coolly.

"Did it have teeth?" squawked Teddy, whose bed covers were now so tangled up that they could only make out his round, saucer-like eyes, which kept changing colour from red to green, to yellow, like a set of traffic lights. It was quite eerie in the dimness of the candle-lit room.

"Don't be a dolt," Fred rebuked. "Ears can't have teeth, stupid."

"Course not. But expelling wax as a means of ending its prey is perfectly acceptable," Nox remarked, laughing with a snort that wasn't at all endearing. "George will be happy with your personification of his missing ear."

"God rest its ickle soul," said Fred, crossing his chest solemnly, when the phone began to ring.

Nox went into the main hall to pick up the receiver, cursing herself for failing to resist the stock dialogue, "Who could be calling at this time of night?" and immediately paying the price when the bank manager of the Angel Hotel, Angus Postlethwaite, answered in a strangled cat-hollering wail.

**oOo**

"Seems like they want our expertise on the case," she told the twins over breakfast the next day, through a mouthful of something that could have been porridge given half the chance.

"Looks like we're finally getting the recognition we deserve," said George, plonking a pot full of scrambled eggs down on the table. "Think you'll need my help?"

"I doubt it. It sounds like a pretty straight-forward case to me," she said. "Ghosts that go bump in the night, that sort of thing."

Fred sighed wistfully. "Wish I was getting a bump in the night."

"Do you mean like jumpin' on the bed, Fred?" asked Teddy, who was today sporting a shock of bubblegum pink hair and wearing Zogbob as a very fetching scarf.

A brief moment of awkward silence filled the kitchen.

George coughed into his hand, hiding a smirk. "Er. Yeah… Well anyway, you know a case is never going to be straightforward when you go in thinking it will be a walk in the woods. You said you saw a woman jump from one of the windows, right? If it's a Vengeful left by a suicide victim, that's a whole other kettle of grindylows. I hear they can be pretty sticky. Might take a bit more than knowledge of their birthday, name and death date to remove it, you know."

"It's fine," she said, waving around a fork-impaled sausage. "You need to keep an eye on Teddy and the shop."

"I can look after myself!" Teddy insisted with a pout. "Or I could come with you! I've never seen a real ghost before."

Fred grunted. "Oi! What do you think I am?"

"You don't count," Teddy muttered sullenly.

George sighed. He understood that what Nox really meant was, _you need to look after Fred_. It was selfish, but George knew she was right. He had a strong, inexplicable feeling that he could not leave Fred. Something had happened yesterday when his twin had attempted to enter the Angel Hotel. Fred was looking paler than usual and he had slept most of yesterday evening and all through the night. But more than that, he knew his brother was hiding something. Fred never hid secrets from him. Bill, Percy, Ron, Ginny, his parents, yes – he'd even keep secrets from Charlie if it could be helped. But never him. George couldn't help feeling stung.

"Maybe it has something to do with today's date?" Fred offered, with a wicked leer.

Nox quirked an eyebrow. "Hmm? How do you mean?"

"Y'know, like maybe some poor tragic sod got her heart broken and decided to off herself on Valentine's Day."

"If it only appears around this time of year, that'd explain why we haven't heard of a Vengeful next door before now," agreed George.

"I hate wet romance," Nox moaned, with one eye on the impressively large fort Teddy was crafting out of his breakfast.

Fred slid back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and propping his feet up on the table, a sly glint in his eye. "Speaking of which, Noxy… You got a date for today yet?"

George looked at his twin, askance.

Nox merely laughed. "You're kidding, right? Dating is the last thing on my mind."

Fred sighed. "See, that's the difference between you and me. Not a romantic thought in that Nox-um head. I mean, come off it – even Teddy's got a date! Made a card for Victoire and everything."

Teddy's cheeks puffed up with air like a blowfish. He scowled hard at the twins across the table. "No I didn't!"

"Ahhh, almost six and already smitten with our lovely niece. Soon he'll be a proper member of the family," said George, fluttering his lashes fetchingly. "Frankly I'm horrified."

"Repulsed!" Fred nodded. "But it's better than being tragic and single like her, I suppose."

Nox simply smiled. "Sorry, but neither of you spineless pasty bloated molluscs are going to get me to admit that I'm tragically single." She leaned her chin on one balled fist while her free hand drummed the table. "Look, an occupation dealing with the undead doesn't help to get you a date in my world. With the number of cases I've covered over the past few months, people will be saying I wreak of the graveyard. Not that I'm complaining; it's all good money. Anyway, Valentine's Day is just a capitalist mass-marketing scam that strives to empty the pockets of an increasingly materialistic soppy nation. It's all a matter of supreme indifference to me."

"You won't be wanting your mail, then," said George, dangling two letters above the fire.

Nox flushed. "Give me those!"

"Now, now, don't be hasty Nox."

Fred nodded, emphatically. "You've got standards and we respect you for those, right George?"

George grinned. "Absolutely! We don't have any."

"You remain a feminist beacon of light on an otherwise dark and murky horizon," said Fred, expression sage.

"Give me my mail or I'll vent your spleen!" Nox snarled, brandishing the butter knife.

"Oi, oi! Be careful where you're pointing that thing. Wouldn't want the butter to get hurt…" George sent the two letters zooming towards her with a casual flick of his wand. "Did you research the Angel last night?"

Nox nodded, catching the two letters between her fingers. "Mmh. Its foundations date back to at least 17th century, but it's no where near as old as this place," she said, waving her hand at Weasley Manor's walls. "Seems to have worked as a coaching inn until 1921 when Lyons acquired the property and turned it into a café. There's nothing of any significance that I could find offhand. A guest committed suicide in 1767 in one of the rooms, but there were no strange occurrences after his death. And the inn made it through the Plague and the Great Fire unscathed. Now it's a Co-operative Bank, managed by Angus Postlethwaite."

"The bloke who called last night?" asked George, who had charmed two sausages on his plate to dance the can-can to Teddy's amusement.

"He sounded pretty terrified," Nox admitted. "Said the porter buggered off and his workers won't do late shifts anymore. He wants me over by eleven sharp." She glanced through the open doorway where the grandfather clock in the main hall stood, stubbornly telling the wrong time no matter how often she wound it. "I wish I could fix that damn thing."

"Oi, Uncle Fred, can me 'n Zogbob go play?" asked Teddy, climbing down from his seat at the table, having shared his breakfast with the front of his t-shirt and the genially hissing firedrake wrapped around his small frame.

"Yeah, sure. Just don't do anything we wouldn't do, mate."

"But don't tickle the ogre," George called after him, grimly. "That's something we wish we hadn't done." When the kitchen door shut and Teddy was safely out of earshot, he turned to Nox with an uncharacteristically stern look on his face. "Don't go poking your nose around that place alone. S'like I said – suicide victims leave tricky Vengefuls. Can't you take Luna? She's got a fair hand for hexes."

Nox shook her head. "She won't be back until tonight. Something about photographing Worchester Woozles."

"Weasley's right," a stern voice said from the doorway. Caithion was standing in the passage, arms folded with a forbidding look on his pale face. "I don't want you going into that building alone."

"I won't be alone," she said breezily. "Apparently there's a whole bunch of other psychics and ghost hunting quacks hired."

Fred laughed. "What will Muggles think of next?"

"Won't they get in your way?" inquired George.

"I wouldn't worry too much. I've heard of them before," said Nox, flipping through the pages of her little red notebook. "They have the investigative ability of a one-eyed goldfish. In any case, they'll be around."

Caithion closed his eyes and sighed wearily, as though vaguely distressed that he was wasting precious time arguing that could otherwise be spent reading or smoking. Preferably the latter.

"My dear, you misheard me. Your lovely ears must be clogged with dirt. But as I'm feeling charitable today, I will dain to repeat myself for your benefit. I said-" His dark eyes flashed behind the square spectacles. "-you're not going into that building _alone._"

"You can glare all you like, but I've got a job to do that's offering a very nice sum of money on completion," she replied calmly, in a tone that was not to be brokered with. "So unless you want to accompany me I'm afraid you'll just have to scowl at my back as I piss off out the front door."

There was a sudden surge of green flames from the fireplace, followed by a surprised yelp as Percy entered the kitchen, tripped over George's foot (which he later claimed was just an innocent bystander), and went from vertical to horizontal in one marvellous geometric sweep. All eyes turned to where the wizard lay sprawled, all legs, arms and joints, on the flagged stone floor.

Fred and George eyed the bucket of cleaning equipment that had followed their brother, unpleasantly.

"What are those, Perce?" asked Fred. "Torture implements?"

"You shouldn't have!" George happily exclaimed.

Primly, Percy pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and rose to his feet, dusting himself off. "I brought a few cleaning products to help sort this mess out."

"Really, Perce, you _shouldn't_ have."

"Hold on a sec." Fred clapped an icy hand down on his brother's shoulder. "Think we might have another job lined up for you."

**oOo**

"I sincerely hope your secretary did not notice my, erm, unusual arrival. Naturally if I had known he was around, I would have come by the door." Percy eyed the bright face of the old Angel Hotel. "So this is what you have been up to; a paranormal detectives' agency. Odd. I'm surprised the Ministry ever gave you permission to work with wizards."

Nox smiled shamefacedly. "It's a little more complicated than that, but that's basically the gist of it, yeah."

Percy nodded thoughtfully as he went to push open the door of the Co-operative bank. "And this is your next case. Interesting building. 20th century design, I gather?"

"Foundations are around four hundred years old, but the building's undergone a lot of reconstruction," she said, following him inside. "The dome's a new feature."

"Ah. OH! For crying out loud! Why is there a red cross on the door? Wet paint, too," he grumbled, looking at the palm of his hand that was now covered in red gunk. "Merlin's beard, how irresponsible. They should warn people about that sort of -"

Percy stopped mid-sentence. A horrible feeling of dampness and darkness overwhelmed them as they stepped inside the Angel. Despite the bank's cleanliness, modern furnishings and rows of plastic potted plants along the windows, the place felt dank, dark and cold, like the dark patch of graveyard that no one ever went near. Nox glanced back at the door they had come through. It was a modern door with large glass fittings. The red cross was painted on the outside. She looked around at the queues of people lining up at the desks. No one else seemed to have made the mistake of touching it.

Something flashed in her memory. She stored it away for later pondering.

A door opened and a nervous man with thinning hair scuttled towards them like a beetle. His beady nervous eyes looked Percy's full length cloak up and down, then relief flooded his round face.

"You're them, aren't you?" His voice dropped to a low timbre. "You're _them._"

Percy drew himself up importantly. "We have names, sir, if you don't mind." He stuck out his hand curtly. "Percy Weasley, if you please."

"Yes, yes. We'll get to that later," said the man, shooing them into the room he had just come from, as though terrified any of his clients might see him consulting with such odd looking people.

They were ushered upstairs to a small room on the first floor, which seemed to be regularly used as a board room. There was a large table and sitting around it were two men, a rather austere looking woman and a girl who looked to be in her late teens. The two women were draped in flowing brightly coloured patterns and adorned with amulets that clinked with every movement. One of the men, in stark contrast, wore a sharp fitting black suit, while his seeming assistant wore a backwards cap, a t-shirt reading 'I C Dead Pixels.' and an expression of extreme boredom on his spotty face. In addition to this was a collection of infra-red cameras and odd looking equipment that Nox didn't recognise. She exchanged a fleeting look with Percy, then took a seat across from the group.

"Shall we get started then? Good. I am Angus Postlethwaite, the manager of this establishment. Lovely to meet you," the small man began from the head of the table, though it did not sound like he was pleased to meet them at all. "Now you all know why I have invited you here today, but before we get on with the prickly details, introductions seem in order." He shuffled some papers, then peered at the two women. "Miss Methuselah Whittle and Miss Ariadne Elphinstone from Psychic Mystique, yes?"

"That is correct," the elder woman, Miss Whittle, replied stiffly.

"Good, good. Interesting names. And the two men on your right are…"

Miss Whittle drew in a severe breath. "Certainly not with us. I am of the opinion that those of the departed cannot be measured by the mere instruments of man."

"And _I_'_m_ of the opinion that your opinion stinks." The younger man sneered and patted his infra red camera lovingly. "Machines never lie. Only _people_ do."

Nox caught the implication behind his words. So did the two female psychics who bristled with rage.

The elder man bowed. "I apologise for my assistant's impoliteness. We mean your profession no insult, Miss Whittle. My name is Israel Darkwood, from the Soulseekers' Paranormal Investigations. This is my assistant, Aidan Finnegan," he said, motioning to the man in the backwards cap beside him.

Postlethwaite began ticking off the names. "Excellent. Now…Penelope Weatherby was it?"

"_Percy – Weasley._"

"I'm sure that's what I said." Postlethwaite turned his gaze to Nox. "Gertrude Wolfe?"

"Nox."

"It says Gertrude here."

"Believe me, it's Nox."

Postlethwaite sized her up critically, then ticked her name off his list. He took a hanky from his jacket pocket and dabbed his sweat-beaded forehead in an affected manner, then began.

"You may know that this building was taken over by Lyons in the 1920s. They wished to transform it into a café and for a time it was a successful. Dances, plays and the like were a regular feature. However," he swallowed, ringing his hands nervously, "rumours began to circle of workers going missing when expansion and renovation work was being carried out. While no guests reported any, er, _unusual_ sightings, customers and visitors complained the building simply had a bad feel and stopped returning."

Nox couldn't blame them. The very air in the Angel felt thick and forbidding.

Postlethwaite continued. "Business dwindled and eventually Lyon's rented the building out. For a long time, the upper floors have been left empty. We've had little trouble, but lately…" The small man trembled. "There have been noises, horrible things. And footsteps upstairs. There was even a fire a fortnight ago. Frankly our workers are terrified." He took a deep breath to calm himself and clasped his hands on the table. "Thinking of the negative results these rumours may have for our business if this continues, I had you all gathered here."

Aiden scratched his chin, musingly. "I read that Lyon's cafe never really took off, but nothing about the building being haunted."

The young psychic, Ariadne, shot him a contemptuous glance. "Obviously you don't do your research properly. It's common knowledge that the ghost of the man who committed suicide in 1767 roams the fourth floor upstairs."

Nox frowned. If there had been any real trouble with ghosts or ghouls, the Ministry of Magic would have dealt with it long ago. Moreover, it had definitely been a woman she had seen jumping from the ledge upstairs.

"It could be the ghost of a fried egg for all I care!" cried Postlethwaite, dabbing his neck fiercely. "Frankly, I don't give a toss how many ghosts there are, just do whatever it is you hacks do and get rid of them. I'm paying you good money here!"

"I highly doubt there are any ghosts in this building," Percy proclaimed, then muttered in Nox's ear, "A ghost causing the damage they are claiming has been done would surely have been dealt with before now."

"Maybe," Nox conceded, clasping her hands together on the table. "There are any number of walking dead that inhabit the world. Ghouls, poltergeists, spirits, ghosts, youkai, Tannasg, Vengefuls. Some are more difficult to detect than others, even by…specialist standards. John Gregorson Campbell, a Gaelic scholar, was the first to classify the lexicon covering the faculty of Highland Second Sight in 1902. For example a _Tamhasg_ is an apparition of a being still alive. _Taslach_ is an unseen ghost or apparition, recognisable only by the noise it makes-" she shot a look at the bank manager, "-such as footsteps or wailing. _Taran_ was the Gaelic name given to a dead child buried in the cornerstone of old buildings to ward off ghosts and evil spirits who might enter. I suspect this building holds a _Taran_."

"A-A… A dead _what_?And what is that preposterous theory built on?" Mr Postlethwaite fixed her with a cold stare. The idea that such a thing could be buried within the walls of his bank alarmed him.

"A hunch." Her voice grew hard as she recalled Fred's experience with the _Taran_ the day before. "If you'd like, I have the number of an archaeologist group who would be very interested in investigating. Of course you know that if a body is discovered in a dig, police investigations must be carried out. I've heard they tend to drag on a bit. Months. Years, even."

The bank manager looked flustered. "Ok, ok! I understand. Your theory then, Miss Wolfe?"

Nox sighed and rested her chin on steepled fingers. "A _Taran_ still doesn't explain the noises or the fires that have been happening. The events seem to be located along the upper floors. If it were a _Taran_ acting up, it wouldn't make sense for it to haunt upstairs which are relatively new in comparison to the lower floors."

Israel Darkwood nodded in agreement. "It would be more likely to haunt the ground floors where the old foundations are." He turned to face the manager. "There's something you've left out, isn't there?"

"N-No! Why do you say that?" But his thin smile drooped under the most measured stare Miss Whittle could muster.

"Mr Postlethwaite, if you think for a moment that my assistant and I will stomach one more minute of your lies you are gravely mistaken," she snapped, getting up to leave. "Your aura of deceit is most disadvantageous to our fragile spiritual field."

"No, no! Please don't leave!" he pleaded hastily. "I haven't lied. You see, I'm positive it's just coincidence. Besides, missing persons reports have been filed and a private detective has been researching the cases carefully. Anyway, they were all young. You can never trust young people, especially these days. Never turn up for work, ditch you right when you need them-"

"Mr Postlethwaite," Percy snapped, irritably. "I urge you to share any knowledge you may have on this case. Even the most miniscule detail may be crucial to our investigation."

Nox couldn't help but smirk at Percy's enthusiasm. He was so different from the rest of his family. Sometimes it was difficult to believe he was related to Fred and George at all.

Flustered, but seeing he had no option but to comply, Postlethwaite reluctantly explained. "Only one person from my department has gone missing. A junior accountant. It was the end of his shift. There's an office in the back where we take coffee breaks. The bin hadn't been taken out in a week. Overflowing. Filthy mess. So I asked him to leave by the back exit where the collection bins are located to dump the rubbish on his way out. That was the last time I saw him." His small eyes dimmed a little. "He was a good boy. Diligent worker. That was over a month ago. They think he's maybe done off with himself. Work in the city is stressful, especially in our business."

"What has that got to do with the noises…the _Taslach_ your workers have heard?" inquired Percy.

"Nothing," said Postlethwaite. "Least that's what the damned police thought, but then two weeks ago one of those sorority clubs from some toff university decided to rent out the ballroom upstairs for a grand party. Two of the caterers and one of the guests disappeared that night; one man and two women." He waved a stubby hand, trying to look unperturbed. "It's not unusual. I remember the kind of things the sorority clubs got up to when I was at university."

Percy's cheeks tinged pink at the innuendo.

"Has the place been searched? For bits of bodies and things I mean," asked Aiden bluntly, earning himself another scowl from the psychics.

"Of course it has!" snapped Postlethwaite. "Detective Thickley has studied the case thoroughly."

"Thickley?" squawked Nox. "Not _Argos_ Thickley?"

Postlethwaite raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Yes. Why? Do you know him?"

Nox didn't reply, only stared miserably at the table. Argos Thickley had been a thorn in her side ever since the Rosewood case, slating her name in the papers every chance he got. His family seemed to be made up of thickset, thick-headed policemen and private investigators and did not abide the work of paranormal investigators. If Thickley was involved, Nox knew the case would be trouble.

**oOo**

Fred dreamed. Another dream where he knew he was dreaming – that small grey space between sleep and awake where time slowed to a standstill. Bill had told him once that ghosts were made of this half-state. He had believed him at the time. Now Fred didn't know what to think.

And there it was again – that smell; a sickly conglomeration of dirt, iron and thyme, followed by haunted singing and finally the image of a red cross painted on a door.

His eyes fluttered open. The red cross began to merge with a figure leaning on the kitchen counter, looking at him with a frown. A figure with dark skin, long platted hair and curves in all the right places. A grin graced his silver lips.

"_He-llo._"

"Stop flirting Fred," Angelina rebuked shortly.

Fred looked guiltless. "Just a friendly hello."

"For you, that's flirting."

"Well it _is_ Valentine's."

He smiled shamelessly and Angelina returned it in favour.

"Ah, you're up!" said George brightly, strolling into the kitchen in his magenta coloured work robes. Teddy was clinging to his hand, giddy at the prospect of actually getting to go behind the scenes of _Weasleys Wizard Wheezes_. "We're off to work then – back at five."

"Five?" Fred spluttered. "You lazy git, quit shutting my shop down early! Even _Ron _wasn't this bad."

"_Your_ shop?" George snorted. "Naff off! I've gotta get to the shops before they close – for the next batch of Dung Donuts we'll need essence of frog's spittle, Garotting Gas, three cloves of garlic and a paperclip. Oh! And a pair of Percy's boxers, but I've already nicked those. And anyway, at least I'm working rather than taking a break to fix up some snogging action for the rest of the day," he said pointedly, while Teddy made loud very loud smacking noises with his lips in Fred and Angelina's direction.

Only Angelina had the grace to blush. "And just what are you implying?"

"That Lugless there can't get a snog for a Sickle these days," Fred retorted, ignoring the crude gesture his twin sent him. "Right! We're off for a walk."

"You're leaving the house?" George inquired, looking quite discomforted. "Sure that's a good idea?"

"Why not? Last time I checked ghosts don't turn to dust in the sunlight," said Fred airily, heading out the kitchen.

Angelina followed in tow, mouthing a quick _'I'll watch out for him'_ over her shoulder to George, who suddenly could not shake the feeling that something was very wrong. As the front door clicked shut, he turned to the fireplace at Teddy's insistence. But after Teddy had disappeared in a shoot of green flames and he picked up a handful of his own Floo powder for the short trip to Diagon Alley, he could have sworn he'd heard singing from the Angel hotel next door.

**oOo**

Percy raised a delicate hand to cover his mouth and nose. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Why? Don't you like heights?" Nox asked from where she was crouched by the low window. They were on the fifth floor and it was a long drop. The view of tiny figures and toy-like vehicles below made her dizzy. She was positive it was the same window where she had seen the woman leap from.

"It's not that," he said, though he did not come any closer to the window. "This building has a horrible smell. Like…iron and dirt. It must be rotten to the core." He waved his wand and muttered, "_Per fumum!_" to no avail. The smell stubbornly clung to the air.

Nox stood up. "I can smell it, but only faintly. That may give us a hint."

"To what?"

"You're a wizard and I'm a Muggle," she explained, "therefore it might be something that only those in possession of magic can fully detect. I mean, what smells and tastes like iron?"

Percy grimaced. "Blood." He looked at her askance, a gentler look of nostalgia crossing his face. He paused nervously, fiddling with the neck of his tie. Then began, "I don't suppose you remember m-"

"I get the feeling there's more than one tale to this story," Nox muttered half to herself, eyeing the window with her chin in one hand. "Maybe George was right; this might not be so straight forward after all. Sorry. Did you say something?"

"N-Nothing at all."

"Oh." She eyed him kindly. "Don't worry, Percy, you usually get some sort of warning before monsters jump out. They're not the quietest beings in the world."

Percy frowned. "I'm not concerned." He had lived with Fred and George too, after all. Though he had to admit even the twins did not make him feel half as nervous and out of sorts as the inside of the Angel hotel did.

"Course not," she said, standing up and dusting her hands off. "The trick is not to get afraid. Get angry."

"And if it is a Vengeful?"

She shrugged. "Get very angry."

They began to travel the labyrinth of corridors that had once been a part of the old hotel. The higher they climbed, the more claustrophobic the passageways became. The filtered light through the grimy windows cast a constant gloom over the rooms. As they walked, Nox became increasingly aware that the shadows around the walls were not cast by furniture. They seemed to be a projection of things…animals, maybe. And they were following.

_Be bold, be bold  
But not too bold…_

"Did you hear that?" she asked, pulling Percy to a sudden stop.

Something heavy and wet was trailing along the corridor ahead of them. Percy's hand went to the wand in his pocket.

"Hear what?" answered the young tech assistant, peeking his head out of a bedroom. "Catch more of your Tas-whatsit?"

Percy and Nox looked in wonder at the equipment in his arms.

"What's all that?" she inquired.

Aidan beamed with pride. "Pretty neat, isn't it?! Got the latest in ghost-hunting technology here. Compact high-frequency detecting systems, digital EMF meters, USB data loggers. I've put these babies around the hotel – they'll detect any unusual temperature drops in the building and save it to the laptops. That way we'll have a good idea of where to start."

Nox smiled. "Thanks. I wouldn't know where to begin with any of that lot. Technology's never been one of my strong suits."

"It isn't?" The tech assistant slouched, disappointed. "And I thought you were a bit of alright. Ah, well. Can't be helped. I can teach you how to use this stuff if you like."

"That's quite alright," Percy interjected, irritably. "We have our own methods. Speaking of which, we'd better be getting along with them. Good day." He strode stiffly ahead.

After Percy had moved out of sight, the tech assistant turned and grinned at Nox, abashed. "Your boyfriend doesn't like me much."

"He's just my work colleague." She paused. "Where's your supervisor?"

"Chatting with that Postlethwaite bloke." He scratched one of the large spots on his nose with thoughtful look. "Bit of a cowardly twat, ain't he?"

"Just a bit," she grinned. "Look, uhm, I wouldn't hang around on your own up here for too long."

He laughed. "Come on, you don't really expect a white sheet to come floating down the corridor and carry me off do you? To be honest, I'm just in the business so I can play around with these beauties," he said, patting a laptop fondly. "I don't really believe in ghosts and stuff. I've been around loads of ghost hunters – most of them see what they want to see, see? All in their heads."

She smiled lightly. "Just a friendly warning. Keep your eyes open."

He shot her a cheeky smirk. "That's what the infra-red cameras are for."

"Hmm." Nox nodded politely and continued down the corridor Percy had taken.

After a few minutes of walking down the corridor alone, she realised Percy was nowhere in sight or sound. Now the passage ran into darkness in both directions. Nox swore in dismay. She could call out, she realised, but something told her that would be pointless. The air was cold, but close – Nox had the feeling her voice wouldn't reach Percy even if he was a few feet from her. She crept along the corridor, listening intently. The passageway was a gloomy tunnel now; lonely. Scary – though that was ridiculous, she reasoned, because what did she have to be afraid of? Every morning she sat down to breakfast with a ghost and a wizard, then made idle conversation with the portrait of the very much deceased Sir Hector Oddness during Elevenses.

There was a scuffling by her foot. She stopped and turned around. In front of her was a plain ordinary door, marked room number thirty-seven. Nox grimaced. This was the room the man who had committed suicide had stayed in. The scuffling came again, quietly, quietly. She held her breath, then pressed her ear against the door. Suddenly, a weight threw itself so hard against the other side of the room that the entire corridor shook and Nox was thrown against the opposite wall, smacking her skull painfully against the hard plaster. Voices rose up all around her – a howling, sobbing tumult. The door trembled violently.

Rubbing the back of her aching skull, Nox frantically flipped through her red notebook in search of the suicide victim's name, birth and death date – the words of power required to remove a Vengeful, only she had never dealt with a suicide victim before.

"Elphred…No, no, Edgar Melville!" she hollered at the door, trying to keep some semblance of authority in her voice. "Born 1728. You passed away 31st of October, 1767. Er…go in peace?"

There was silence. Nox clasped her chest and fell against the wall, breathing in gasps. She flipped her notebook closed.

And then she knew she was in danger.

The floorboards beneath the door splintered with a sickening crack. Two hairless, slippery hands appeared, digging frantically at the small space beneath the door. Nox staggered against the opposite wall, watching in horror as the head appeared at last, eyeing her with blank, lidless sockets. Being the spirit of a Muggle, with no magic to retain the image of its former self, the creature writhed like an inflated shadow on the floor, long disjointed fingers clawing madly at floor. The hollow voices returned and the whole Angel began to creak and groan, as if arching in pain. Then something else caught her eye – dark, scratchy words etching themselves all along the walls.

_Abracadabra, Abracadabra, Abracadabra_

The writhing figure on the floor was half-way below the door when all of a sudden there came a terrible sucking sound from the bedroom beyond; a sound that oozed, like grey slime. The Vengeful's arms reached out for her, almost pleading, and for a moment a desire to seize its arms and pull it free caught her, because deep down she knew that whatever was behind that door was far worse. She forcibly pushed herself away from the wall and reached out for the arms, seeing the palms of her own hands covered with blood. It was wet and warm, and slippery. It ran down the walls and slithered through the halls, which suddenly felt excruciatingly hot and claustrophobic; the smell of iron and dirt and thyme drifting like an evil wind around her.

Someone screamed in the near distance. Then Aidan ran past her madly, scattering bits of computer and all his sophisticated ghost-hunting technology behind him as he belted it down the corridor. Black spots covered his neck and arms. Fear gripped her by the throat and she turned to look down the passage he had come from.

A tall figure, clad entirely in a black cloak, hat and with a sickle-like beak protruding from its covered face, was strolling towards her as calmly and cheerfully as a Victorian dignitary, suitcase in hand. The smell of iron, dirt and thyme grew stronger until her vision began to sting painfully. A hand reached towards her. She recoiled instinctively, knowing with a horrible certainty that touching that hand would mean death.

Diving away, Nox threw herself down the narrow hallway, wrenching open the first unlocked door she could find and stumbling clumsily down a treacherous flight of stone stairs.

**oOo**

History never bothered Fred, so Fred had never bothered to bother history, and so he was probably the last wizard on earth – dead or alive – who could tell you much about the origins of London. He knew about the things typical boys only ever troubled themselves to learn; gory things like the Great Fire, witch burnings, Jack the Ripper, and the day they shut the city gates to wall in the Plague.

He could not have told you that two thousand years ago London had once been a tiny Celtic village which the Romans had settled in. He could not tell you much about the wars that had been fought there by both Muggles and magic folk alike, though no other city in Britain had seen the strange wars London had seen. But Fred could tell you that London was a fine city; a city of contrasts; of parks and skyscrapers; of modern innovation and ancient magic – a twin city of hidden streets.

They had taken a tube to Hyde Park – an uncomfortable mode of transportation at most times, but made ten times worse when an entire carriage of people were continuously stepping through you – and were now meandering through the frosty pathways towards the frozen Serpentine lake.

Their conversation had started out fine. He'd teased her a bit, they reminisced about the old days, chatted about Oliver's six a.m. pep talks and Umbridge's dictatorship. Fred had always been impressed with Angelina. She was beautiful and confident, and certainly going somewhere. They were on the same wavelength. They made great friends and had made even better lovers during the brief stint they had been together. Fred supposed he had always subconsciously expected them to end up together, even when nothing had been made official between them and all they shared was the occasional flirtation. It had never been an overwhelming relationship. It had just sort of …_been_. Taken for granted, perhaps. Maybe it wasn't the meant-to-be romance of Ron and Hermione or the passionate love-you-regardless relationship Bill and Fleur shared, but it had been good having her there, even now. _Especially_ now. And anyway, Fred wasn't a romantic. He'd always wanted a big family, sure, but he'd never taken much time to mull over the great love story preceding it – that was more George's thing.

Fred had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed that they had been walking in silence for a good five minutes. Now that he was aware of it, he realised it wasn't a comfortable silence.

He caught Angelina looking at him in a critical way that reminded him a little of Oliver and made him wonder why those two had never gotten together; then he shuddered at the thought.

She shifted her gaze to the ground. "You never see us these days. Not even when Oliver came down for Katie's birthday. And you know how elusive he is." She looked at him askance. "He made a real effort to see you. You could have at least-"

"We've been busy, Angie," Fred cut her off. "It's not like we've been ignoring you lot. It's just, y'know, the past few months have come and gone like a fart that no one wanted to own up to."

She snorted. "That's one way of putting it."

"Putting what?"

"That you're avoiding us," she said, then added gently, "You're avoiding me."

The spark of mischief that had been lingering in his eyes went out and a frown creased his forever youthful face. "It's not like that. Look, it's complicated."

"Complicated?" she repeated, blinking incredulously. "Fred, you and George disappear for days on end to travel all over the country working for a Muggle you'd never even met before last summer. You were nearly caught up in the Blackwater Hall disaster and didn't even contact us to let us know you're alive until three days afterward – I mean, for Merlin's sake, we thought George and Percy were _dead!_"

"Dying's not all bad," he tried to tease her.

"Don't joke," she snapped. "It's not funny. You know, you're a lot of things Fred, but I never thought you were totally selfish. Do you even care about any of us? Do you have any idea how much Lee misses you? How much your _family_ miss you? How much _I-_" Angelina stopped herself short and took a deep breath. "I don't even know why I bother anymore. You never even bothered before you-" This time she shut her mouth tightly, a guilty look stinging her eyes.

"Angie…" He stopped and reached his hand to touch her arm, watched her shiver involuntarily and step out of his reach. He gaped at her, words dying on his tongue. Then determined, he stiffened his resolve. "Look, I know what I am. I can't give you everything I could have, but there's always going to be an us. Because I love you," and now that he'd finally said it, Fred was sure he meant it.

There was an expression on her face that he hadn't seen before. It was nervous and puzzled.

"Fred," she began slowly, her voice trembling, "there never was much of an us. And …and we've both got to be reasonable – there never can be." Her voice was choked and raw. She raised her dark eyes to his. "Can there?"

"Not if you don't want it enough," he said, very bitterly.

Angelina fixed him with a level stare. "Are you saying that to me or to yourself?"

Fred stood there, staring at her, trying to read her expression; wishing he knew how to. Sometimes, he realised, there is nothing you can do. He walked away.

**oOo**

Nox couldn't quite remember falling, nor had she any idea of how far she'd fallen. Something had broken and unleashed inside the walls of the Angel hotel and she had simply run and kept on running, searching frantically for any sign of Percy, until a hatch in the floor had opened and the solid ground beneath her feet had simply given way. At a glance, it looked like a cellar of some sort. She could make out a furnace in the gloom and an old bench covered in empty mercury bottles and things you might have found in an old apothecary shop.

Nox pushed herself up against the wall until she was in a sitting position, feeling the cool brick roughness against her face. She was worried about Percy. He may have been a wizard and a Weasley to boot, but there was something quite hapless about the man that was both endearing and troublesome. She attempted to push herself to her feet again, then hissed at the pain which arched across her left arm and over her ribs. Her right leg felt numb, the old familiar wound flaring up again. She wanted to stop, to lie down and sleep for a hundred years…

Then, a light was kindled and a voice said, as if from a long way away, "AH! _Bugger and blast! _Burned my bloody hand."

Nox opened her eyes, wincing at the sudden candlelight, bright in the darkness. A man was crouched by the furnace. She recognised him instantly; the tramp who played the penny-whistle on the street across from Weasley Manor. The black and white collie that always accompanied him lay silent at his back. The tramp wasn't at all pleasant to look at. His beard was yellow and grey and his eyes were sunken, but alarmingly bright.

He grinned at her, showing pointed yellow teeth. "What's your name?"

"Nox-"

"Your _real_ name."

"It's No…Gertrude," she relented. "Gertrude Wolfe."

"An' I bet yeh've got a bite to boot," the old tramp cackled. "I also bet yeh'd like to know my name now, eh?"

"Err…"

"It's Garth," he said flatly, procuring a half-gnawed chicken drumstick from inside his filthy jacket. He rolled it around his fingers, watching Nox carefully. "But that's not my real name…"

"What is your real name?" she asked, wondering if she could ignore the pain in her leg long enough to outrun him. Something more than his general appearance was unsettling.

He leaned towards her, the wolf-like grin on his face broadening with a secretive look. "_Merlin._"

"Like the wizard?"

His grin darkened. "Not just _like_ him."

'_Oh God,'_ Nox moaned, mentally. "That would, uhm, make you pretty …freaking old…" she finished lamely.

Merlin's eyes sparked with pride. "Ancient!" he cackled. "Oh, I'll die alright. The Grawny Man will catch me eventually, but not for a while yet. YOU HEAR ME, YOU TROLLOP!" He suddenly turned and viciously tossed the drumstick at the dog behind him. "I know your master! WENCH! WITCH! _HEATHEN BITCH!_"

The dog merely blinked its soft brown eyes at him, yawned once, then went to sleep.

Merlin scowled. "Aye, you do that."

A door in an adjoining room opened and closed; there were heeled footsteps on the flagged stone floor. A rattling breath trembled through the air. Nox froze.

"Don't worry," said Merlin, smiling at the wall. "He can't find us here. I won't let him. But he's a nasty fellow. Much worse than your average Vengeful."

"You know what he is?" Nox asked urgently.

"Aye. He's the Plague Doctor. Like a Vengeful, he's a conglomeration of the fear and terror folks felt during the Plague year. But he's much worse than that." Merlin gave her a hard look. "He used to be a man once. A great wizard. Then he did unspeakable things to the tenants in this very inn. Now he's a self-made Inferi – a monster."

Nox played the events of the passageway upstairs in her head. "Before he appeared, I heard voices and saw writing emerge on the wall. Abracadabra, over an over again," she mused. "Abracadabra wasn't always an old stock incantation used by stage magicians, but an ancient Aramaic phrase, "_avra kedavra"_, used to heal. People used to wear it around their necks as an amulet to ward off the plague…"

The tramp chortled. "Avra kedavra, or _Avada Kedavra_ as it's known now, is a wizard's killing curse," said Merlin. "Or rather, _the _wizard's killing curse, so named after the Plague Doctors who gave false hope to plague victims by giving them such amulets." The footsteps drew closer overhead now. Merlin's beady eyes moved to the ceiling. "Our Plague Doctor was the worst of the lot, mind you. No hint of hope did he bring. Only death."

"Why hasn't he been stopped by the Ministry before now?" Nox asked, incredulously.

Merlin's sharp eyes swivelled towards her. "Because this place, this building, has been sleeping for many years. Something's woken it up and all the spirits and bad things that slept with it, including him." He leered at her. "Maybe something you're searchin' for… Something you recently acquired two shards of in the Black Forest."

Nox narrowed her gaze. "How do you know about that?"

And before she could blink, his greasy hands were around her forearms, the sharp fingernails digging into her skin. "Because, I know what you're up to, lass, even if you don't," he growled, his foul breath now mere inches from her face. "You are on a Grail quest."

**oOo**

**

* * *

  
**

**A/N:** Hope that last bit didn't toss you overboard too much, haha! Don't worry, everything will slowly come together. The 'grail' thing will be explained (unless you know your Welsh mythology, particularly the Mabinogion, in which case you'll probably figure it out).

**Tam:** Thank you very much, I'm very flattered that you're enjoying the story so far and my daft Nox. Many cheers!!

**Eukaynamine:** Wow, thank you for the ace compliment! Honestly, I can't remember what really got the ball rolling on this fic. I knew I wanted to write something that dealt with Fred and George in the aftermath of Deathly Hallows. I usually take a stroll down by the beach when I'm thinking up story ideas and on the pier house someone had written "Mad Rozza". That's where I got the idea for Nox's father and the idea just kind of rolled from there, hehe!

**The Nobbly Norwegian:** Man, I should have updated for the twins' birthday. Now I'll be getting a smiting Weasley style (crapcrapcrap). Well, 23 days later isn't too bad...is it? Eeep. Oh well, cheers for the loverly review, mate!

**NyxMyx26:** Thank you so much mate - seriously, it's such an immense relief when people say I've got the twins down alright. It's really important to me that I get their characters right, as I want this fic to work, for me personally, as a sequel to the books ('cos without it, I could never read DH again, seriously XD).

**Aniay:** Thank you very much mate! I guess, with Draco, he's a pretty desperate guy now that his family's broke, not to mention he's quite a bit different from where we left him in the HP series. I figure, though he's still very proud, the war broke something inside of him. You could particularly tell during DH that Draco was losing it a bit... XD


	25. Casebook 04: The Black Death

**A/N:** (sheepish smile) if I go down on hands and knees, will you forgive me for taking so ruddy long to update? I'm so sorry! Life has been hectic and full of illness, family events and adventure in equal proportions. Ok, there was probably a tad more adventuring.

Anyways, I was hoping to wrap this casebook up with this chapter, but it got way too long (as usual), so I'm splitting it into two chapters. The second part is written and I'll post it in a week's time. I'm also halfway through the first chapter of the next casebook, so you can't say I've not been working on this haha!

**Notes & thanks:** The Frog Prince Chap Stick was dreamt up by one of my dear mates, Leaviel – thanks for lending it to me mate! Also, this chapter is dedicated to **LilAngelMamim **on Deviantart for surprising me with two stonkingly awesome pictures of Nox. Can't thank you enough!

**Reviews:** Almost at 500 reviews, I can hardly believe it! I cannot thank everyone enough who has taken the time to read, review, draw fanart and plug the fic. I don't even have the words to explain how much it means to me guys, you make me so happy. Which reminds me, FFNet's gone and sodded the review reply system so that I don't know who I've replied to and who I haven't (I have a terrible memory, so sorry!!). Let me know if I haven't replied to you to say thanks, especially if there's questions you want answered.

* * *

_Ring around the Rosy,_

_A pocket full of posies;_

_Ashes, ashes,_

_We all fall down!_

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook 04: The Black Death

'_I first encountered Name Magic when I was but a young pubescent student on my gap year observing the Azandi, a Hunter/Gatherer tribe out in Zambia. When I first arrived I introduced myself as any well brought up British civilian is taught from childhood. Well blow me, the poor shaman nearly choked on his beard! They found the idea that I should hand over my name to them all willy nilly to be completely absurd. When I requested the Chief's name, it was quite obvious the title he had given me was a fake. Truth be told, I was quite flabbergasted._

_Later that night, they all sat around the fire observing me. About thirty Azandi all observing me. And I sat there in the middle, observing them back. This to and fro went on for some time. Rather outnumbered I was, but I like to think that I gave as good as I got in the observation department. We had reached something of an impasse, but nevertheless I was undeterred. _

_"Look here Chief," I said, "I am most humbled by your outstanding hospitality and your quality pipe weed, but frankly I find it hard to believe that Elvis is your name. Don't get me wrong, it's a lovely name, very unusual in this part of the world, but I was expecting something a little closer to home, see. In addition to that, I feel you and your people may have gotten the wrong end of the stick. I am here to observe _you_. You are to take no notice of me. I am a mere fly on the wall; an impassive observer of human goings about."_

_The chief laughed, puffed on his pipe and told me I'd spent far too long with my head stuck in a book (rightfully so!). He went onto explain a branch of Word Magic I had not yet come upon, though now it seems absurd that it had never occurred to me: that was our Two Names. There is a belief amongst many that each of us may lay claim to possessing two names - our Given Name and our True Name. To one who holds knowledge of the Dark Arts, learning a person's Given or True Name is a very powerful thing indeed and to give it away to non-kin is nothing short of criminal among the Azandi. At the very least, the Azandi told me, they must get in another two years of observing strangers before they would even think of handing over their names. _

_This belief in the power of names is not merely native to African Hunter/Gatherer tribes. It is widely believed amongst sorcerers the world over, such as in Japan, China, Morocco, Southern Ireland and, indeed, Great Britain, that our three names are strongly linked to our souls, particularly our True Names, which are hidden even from our own knowledge._

_'You see,' said the Azandi Chief, 'names are words and words form speech, and speech has terrific power. It enables us to communicate on a higher level. Kind words are full of positive energy; hurtful words are full of negative energy. To hear either too often can have a detrimental effect on our souls. The correct set of words can work very much like a mathematical equation. Discover the right phrase and you have your answer. The challenge is finding the right words.'_

_It saddens me to say the Azandi never did have the chance to observe me long enough, for I was obliged to return home. Fortunately for me, two nights after I had arrived in Zambia the Chief and I got very high on some pipe weed from the village. We forged a bond the like of which two men can only forge when one holds the other's beard back while he vomits into a bush. Needless to say I learned his name thereafter.'_

Edward Balthazar McRozen, _Wilful Words, _1995

**oOo**

She tried to twist away from him, but Merlin's fingers held fast in an iron grip. His eyes burned white in his grimy wolfish face and he grinned as though amused at some private joke that she was not privy to.

"You've got five seconds to let go of my arm," Nox warned, hoping that she hadn't heard the tramp right and wondering how on earth the old Faerie witch in Scrum had ever had the gall to call her _lucky_.

Her stern warning went unacknowledged and his grip tightened painfully around her wrist. "That was very silly of you handing me your given name – _Gertrude_." And as he spoke her name, Nox felt as though thousands of tiny strings had tied themselves in knots all around her legs and arms, fastening her will to his. His words were swimming around her head; golden things flitting through the air like fish with wings. Her limbs were frozen. She struggled to form coherent thoughts.

Merlin's wild gaze fixed on her as he whispered, "To a witch or wizard who knows how, learning a person's given name can earn them influence over that person's free will. I thought you would've known that, seeing as your daddy was a Wordsmith."

She looked at him hard. "A what?"

"Your lack of wits astonishes even me and I am a hard man to surprise," he remarked indignantly. "You've used your daddy's tricks plenty of times getting rid of dead wee beasties all over the Great Isles. Remarkable trickery, particularly for a Muggle, who are far too often remarkable in their unremarkability."

Nox hesitated. "You mean Word Magic… The power of suggestion?" she muttered, sliding away from him as his grip finally loosened. "Like a hypnotist uses."

The tramp nodded and smiled greasily. "Never underestimate the power of speech, particularly names. There are two names for everyone. Our Given Name," he began, while golden letters poured out of his mouth like smoke, spelling 'Gertrude' in the air, "is the name our parents give us at birth. But it is our True Name that is the most powerful and unique to us and us alone."

"How do you know what your True Name is?" she asked, praying that Merlin would not utter her given name ever again. Every time he did it felt as though she lost a little piece of herself.

"You don't," he chuckled. "Plain and simple. Better it remains a mystery. You see, little fish, handing someone your True Name is about as sensible as handing over your soul on a silver platter. A True Name gives people absolute power over you and your soul – forever." He licked his lips. "Far more powerful than any Imperius Curse." Then Merlin clicked his grimy fingers together and suddenly the hold he had had over her vanished completely. The tiny knotted strings around her limbs disappeared; her legs felt weak and her head felt light. Nox let out a relieved sigh, then glowered at him.

"Don't do that again. _Merlin._"

The tramp merely smiled again, baring his yellow pointed teeth. "You think I'm mad."

Nox frowned. "Either you are or I am. Am I?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you?"

"Unlikely."

"There's still a chance, though."

"A slim chance." His eyes sparked. "Very slim. I am a brilliant wizard after all – probably the best. I am rarely wrong about anything. Though stranger things have happened, admittedly with alarming regularity."

"If you say so." She put her hands into her pockets, safely out of his reach, and cocked her head.

The old tramp's eyes quickly flicked nervously to the door above the stone steps. The black and white collie by his side was twitching its ears tentatively back and forward and growling softly.

"He's close. The Plague Doctor."

Nox froze instinctively. In the confusion she had almost forgotten all about the tall beaked creature barely resembling a man, who walked the empty halls of the Angel Hotel.

"I thought you said he wouldn't find us here," she whispered.

"Ah." Merlin began to back into the shadows. "Well. Piss me a river. He's a little more stubborn than I'd thought." Like a pile of raggedy clothes unfolding and expanding, he straightened his back and whistled to the dog, who obediently padded to his side. "Follow me. My help rarely comes cheaply and I never give freebies, but as it happens I need you as much as you need me. Pick up your feet."

Nox quickly found anger replacing her nervousness. "You want me to follow you? You're up a gum tree."

A crash like the sound of a fist connecting against flimsy wood almost made her jump out of her skin. Her hands were shaking as she spun towards the door at the top of the steps. She could imagine that dark shape behind it. She did not want to see that face again with its cruel beak and black goggled face, the outstretched hand that promised death…

Nox backed towards the tramp and his dog by the far wall, her heart pounding in her chest. "Is there any way out of here?"

Merlin stopped and turned towards her, a wicked leer on his haggard face. "If you know how." He tapped his temple and grinned wolfishly. "Use your head, little knight. For here the real quest begins. Here begin the terrors. Here begin the marvels." And then he lifted a corner of wall as though he were lifting up a curtain and beckoned to her with his crooked fingers.

Nox took a step forward, then paused. "How do I know I can trust you?"

He looked offended. "You don't. I certainly don't have time to go about giving people reason to trust me. No fun in that. Either you come with me and have a chance at surviving or you stay here and die a horrible death. And it will be horrible. Messy, too. Likely lots of flailing around."

Nox did not need to be told twice. She knew what staying in the room would bring her. Percy needed her too. She would not leave him to the Plague Doctor.

As though reading her mind, Merlin nodded and crept underneath the wall with Nox in tow.

**oOo**

In a street that sold everything from owls, wands, pointed hats and bewitched ice-cream that never melted, not even in the hottest weather, it was quite a feat that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was renowned as being the most eccentric shop in Diagon Alley. This came as no surprise, not even to the casual observer, for the display windows were so eye-wateringly dazzling that they would catch the eye of a blind man. Crimson red and violently pink bottles of love potions and Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher labelled 'New Improved Formula for the Excessively and Grotesquely Spotty!' adorned the shelves for the Wonder Witch Valentine's range.

Inside, the shop was packed with customers both young and old. George had arranged a special on Valentine's products: the boxes of Bat's Breath and Frog Prince Chap Stick (lip balm that claimed to turn the first person you kissed into a frog) were proving particularly popular with the giggling hordes of girls.

George was squatting on the floor trying his best to clean up a bottle of spilled Vanishing ink with an enchanted mop that kept disappearing. He muttered a swear. He hated this stuff. The previous week Fred had drawn on Nox's face with a permanent ink quill and she had attempted to remove with Vanishing ink. George had quickly stopped her, explaining the stuff was far too temperamental to use directly on skin. The last time someone had tried, their entire face had disappeared and reappeared two days later on a piece of toast in Brazil. The Muggle media had claimed it was the Messiah returned.

When he looked up he saw his friend Lee Jordan moping against the till with his chin cupped in one hand while the other traced a pink love heart in the air with his wand, forlornly.

"Oi! Get to work you lazy bugger," said George. "I'm not paying you in Knuts, you know."

Lee glowered. "You're not paying me _at all_."

"Ah, but friendship is priceless."

Lee looked unimpressed. "Always got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I have nothing to declare except my own genius," said George modestly as he casually plucked Teddy, who was still stubbornly wearing Zogbob as a scarf, out of a joke cauldron where the young wizard had been secretly scoffing down an entire box of Egg Heads (for all the 'Perfect Prefect Pinheads' out there). After depositing Teddy and a hissing Zogbob on the shop floor, he leaned a hand against the counter and cast a winning smile at a couple of witches who were passing.

"Discounts on Crooning Custards, available only to the exceptionally pretty witches!" he called after them, tipping his top hat at a jaunty angle. The two girls tittered and gossiped amongst themselves.

Lee, meanwhile, merely grunted and shifted his chin to his other hand, looking utterly miserable.

"Alright, spit it out," George relented. "What's jolted your jinx?"

"Well just look around you! Look at all these gorgeous girls-"

"I am," George replied honestly.

Lee pouted. "You're not listening."

"Well I've only got one ear to spare."

"I'm serious, man!" Lee exclaimed, leaning over the counter towards him. "This is desperate! This is critical! This is life or _death!_ It's bleeding Valentine's Day and we're practically the only two singletons left from our year, did you know that?" He sighed. "What's wrong with us? I mean, we're eligible bachelors, right?"

"Bachelors, yes. Eligible-" George stopped with a yelp as the trick wand he'd picked up in place of his own promptly beat him about the head. "That's debateable."

Lee ignored his friend's winces and gave another long, lugubrious sigh. He began tracing little circles on the counter with one finger, looking quite pitiful.

George rolled his eyes. "Oh, blimey. Alright, that's it. Go home. Your miserable mug is beginning to put off my potential customers."

"Oh, fine! Fine! Don't worry about me," Lee lamented, pressing a hand against his forehead in a dramatic gesture. "Just nursing a broken heart and swimming the deep dark depths of angst and depression because your brother has gone and nicked my one true love on Valentine's Day. _Again._"

"Lee, you've never been depressed in your entire bleeding life," George pointed out matter-of-factly. "You wouldn't know depression if it loped through this shop right now singing 'I am Depression!' while humming the funeral march and accompanying itself on the kazoo."

"You mock my sorrow," Lee snorted. His stomach grumbled loudly. He looked at his friend hopefully. "You got anything to eat around here that won't turn me into a canary?"

George shook his head. "No food. Only sarcasm."

"That'll do. One order of sarcasm and a pint of irony, please." Lee cocked his dark head at the shop's open door and suddenly brightened. "Hey, isn't that Loony Lovegood out there?" He pointed through the glass.

George turned. Standing near one Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes window was a slight witch with long blonde hair and the oddest contraption he had ever seen atop her head. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a toilet roll holder with toilet roll in place, the dangling tissue hanging just above her forehead. He took a moment to watch her through the busy, fizzing, popping display window and as he did he couldn't help the soft, if bemused, smile from spreading across his face. He began to raise his hand to wave her in when someone else stepped into view through the window. Luna was chatting to someone on the street. His expression changed. The wizard in sight was tall, much taller than him, and dwarfed Luna's slight frame. Two curtains of wavy dirty blonde hair hung above his bright eyes which, George noted with no small amount of irritation, were complete fixed on Luna.

"That's Rolf Scamander," said Lee, answering his unspoken question. "He's the grandson of Newt Scamander. Y'know, that famous Magizoologist? Rolf's a pretty decent unnaturalist too now – dead popular in Magizoologist circles. _Yes_, they actually exist. I interviewed him a couple of months back on the Wizard Wireless. Pretty nice bloke. He likes the sound of his own voice, mind."

"Looks a bit of a tit," George retorted, surprised at his own scathing tone of voice.

Lee raised his eyebrows at him. "Thought you weren't interested in her?"

"I'm not."

"Said she was just a family friend."

"I did."

"And that she's crazier than a tango-dancing coconut."

"She is."

Lee paused a moment, weighing his luck, then prodded, "So why do you look like you want to punch that poor unsuspecting sod in the nads?"

"Dunno what you're on about," said George, and thrust a Puking Pastille into Lee's mouth before his friend could say another word. Then he turned back to the door and promptly let out a high-pitched shriek that was not at all endearing. Luna was mere inches from his face, her wide-eyed owlish gaze staring up at him intently.

"Hello, George." She flashed a smile, then peered closely at the expression on his face. "Did I give you a fright?"

George smiled hastily. "Not a chance, Luna." He laughed, taking his hand away from his thumping chest and tried to ignore Lee whose eyes he could feel smirking at the back of his head. "Here, I thought you were off chasing Worchester Wombats or something."

"Worchester Woozles," she corrected with a light smile. "Unfortunately our trip was cancelled owing to some rather peculiar weather."

"Oh yeah? Raining cats and dogs was it?"

Luna pulled a thoughtful look and then nodded her head. "Quite possibly."

"Sarcasm's lost on those who have a crush on you, mate," Lee whispered in George's ear, then turned to Luna brightly. "Hello, Luna. You can keep Holey here company for a bit while I look after the shop. Teddy's got his sticky hands all over the stuff again – OI! You little bugger, you're going to get your fingers hexed off if you pinch one more thing!" Lee hollered at the guilty looking blue-haired boy, marching off in his direction across the shop floor.

George glared at his friend's back, then turned to look at Luna who was looking at him looking at her. It was quite a conundrum. His eyes wandered up to her unusual headdress.

"That's an interesting…hat?" he chanced.

Luna beamed. "Oh, thank you. It's a portable nose-blower," she explained, tapping the toilet-roll in its hat-like fixture on top of her head. "With all the cold weather and snow we've had lately I've caught a bit of a cold, so Daddy fixed this up for me. It's quite clever. Though I expect you're embarrassed to be seen with me wearing it."

George looked genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

"Oh, because there's a group of girls in the corner who seem to like you very much," she said serenely, pointing to the window where the Valentine's WonderWitch display was laid out without looking. "They were talking about you when I came into the shop. They seem quite fond of you."

"Well I'm fond of you," George said firmly.

A look that might have been surprise etched along Luna's pale features. She held his gaze evenly until eventually he could bare her owlish gaze no longer and looked away. It was there again, that heavy awkwardness in the air between them. It had kept rearing its great ugly head over the past couple of months, ever since that eventful New Year's Eve. George did not know what it was, but he knew there was no awkward air between Luna and Fred.

And then, she said quite simply, "Thank you George."

"For what?"

"Just thank you."

George looked mildly perplexed at Luna's vagueness, but before he could speak, Rolf Scamander reappeared suddenly by her side, like a very large and unwelcome daisy sprouting out of the ground. He rather resembled one too, George thought, glaring. Rolf was indeed much taller than George, though a little on the lanky side in his long tweed jacket and looked the sort who had probably attended Charmbridge College of Further Education for Gifted (and George had always taken 'Gifted' to mean obscenely wealthy) Witches and Wizards.

"Good day there!" Rolf greeted in a very high-born tone, sticking his hand out towards George. "Rolf Scamander, wonderful to meet you. Heard so many fantastic things about you from my dear Luna here."

George bristled at the word 'my' and his attention was so fixed on the arm around Luna's shoulders that he completely ignored the offered handshake. Rolf, however, did not seem to notice and continued cheerily on.

"It's truly a treat to finally meet you, Mr Weasley. I do so admire your very fine work here. I was hoping you would indulge me with some of your creative wisdom at the wedding. You are coming, of course."

George blinked. "Wedding?"

Rolf squeezed Luna's shoulder, beaming from ear to ear. "Why Luna's and my wedding, naturally. No doubt you will have heard all about it. Shan't bore you with the details, but it should be a lovely event. Thinking about having it at the mouth of the Hydra's cave in Crete. You know. Where the Golden Fleece is? Meant to bring a newly wedded couple terrific luck! That is, so long as they don't get consumed, what. Ha ha!"

There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence between George's ears. Rolf had not stopped talking, but he didn't hear a single word the man said. He felt strangely blank and said nothing as the wizard prattled on relentlessly, his eyes fixed on the hand grasping Luna's right shoulder. George barely batted an eye when Rolf mentioned something about hurrying off to finish a most important dissertation on the optical systems of the northern basilisk for his grandfather and only heard himself mutter a goodbye as Rolf exited the shop.

As the shop door swung closed behind Rolf, suddenly, as though someone had just ignited cursed fire in his gut, George wanted very much to run after the man and demonstrate just where he could shove his grandfather's dissertation. His eyes swivelled towards Luna. The sight of her stung him like a Billywig; he felt lightheaded and disorientated, as if someone had just told him that something he'd always taken for granted was completely wrong, like the sky was actually purple and grass really grows out of your ears.

'_She's getting married?' _his mind repeated, as though stuck on a loop._ 'To that twat?'_

He realised then that it was just the two of them now. The shop seemed strangely empty.

Luna looked concerned. "Are you okay, George? You look quite ill, like you've swallowed something that's trying to swallow you back."

George gave a start and shook his head numbly. Abruptly, he turned his back to her and walked behind one of the tills, greeting a customer with a less than friendly face. "That's four Galleons, two Sickles and a Knut," he snapped so suddenly that the customer could not pack their belongings and exit the shop fast enough. After they were gone, he continued to fiddle around with packages of Worry Warts and Nosebleed Nougats, anything to distract him from her, but Luna had not moved from her spot, waiting patiently for him to speak. Her head tilted to the side like an animal's and her misty protuberant eyes studied him intensely as they had done so often in the past few months they had spent together.

"Don't you have stuff to do, Luna," he said finally, with the faintest sneer. She might have looked surprised if it wasn't for the fact that her pale eyes were so round and her eyebrows so fair that she always looked somewhat surprised.

"Oh. Yes, I do." She stepped closer, looking a tad self-conscious for the first time since he had known her. "I was wondering if you might know where Nox is today."

She had that vague, misty tone in her voice and George suddenly hated it.

"She's working at the Angel Hotel," he said crisply, thumbing through papers. "Investigating some case with Percy." There was a slight tremor in his voice as he said it. Luna picked it up.

"You're worried," she stated lightly, demonstrating her usual knack for seeing what no one else could see or wanted to see. "Is it an important case?"

"No," he lied. He knew what she meant by important, but he did not want to share his thoughts with Luna now.

Again, he could feel her watching him with a considering sort of gaze, could almost _feel_ her misty eyes trying to read him and knowing that she was trying to find the right words to explain. Luna had never bothered with finding the right words before, so why was she bothering now? She had nothing to feel guilty about, George thought darkly. After all, they obviously weren't close friends if she hadn't bothered to tell him about her engagement.

He heard her take another step towards him and place something on the till close to his hand. Then she said, softly, "Happy Valentine's Day, George."

Without another word, she left the shop. A second or two after the bells above the door tingled announcing her exit, George turned to the doorway. Something in his chest tightened and constricted uncomfortably as he watched her hurry down the street with her head bowed against the cold wind, her face tinged slightly pink.

He pulled the brown paper off the package she had left him. Inside was a photo in a golden frame of twisted ivy. The photo had been taken during Fred and George's final year at Hogwarts inside the Room of Requirement. He counted the members of Dumbledore's Army, stared into the grinning faces of those who'd died in the battle two years later, minus Colin Creevey who had taken the photo. Fred was leering at the camera, one arm thrust over George's shoulders while he saluted enthusiastically with his free hand. Luna stood a little ways off to the left. She was a pale solitary figure, but the smile on her face was genuine. He realised with a jolt that he had never seen her look so happy before.

George knew then that Rolf might have been an irritating toff with a bad haircut and the inability to shut his big posh trap, but he was much, much worse.

**oOo**

The tunnel they emerged into was low and narrow, and evil seeming. Vines and creepers crawled up the damp crumbling walls. A rich smell of rot and soil filled her nostrils. Ahead, she could hear Merlin as he breathed in the damp air. At that moment, Nox knew she was nuts. Perhaps not as nuts as Merlin or Garth or whatever the tramp wanted to call himself was, but nuts all the same. She wished she had a weapon. A big stick perhaps. Still, she knew from the tight grip Merlin had had on her arm that despite his scruffy appearance he was quick and agile, and far stronger than she was. Hitting the man with a big stick would probably be like kicking a lion and expecting it to keel over and die. She rubbed her bruised wrist and glared at his bony back.

A terrible stench wafted off of the old tramp, like whiskey mixed with wet seaweed and earthiness; an ancient smell and nothing like the waft of dust and hard-boiled sweets you got when stepping onto the Old Age Pensioner's morning bus service.

Merlin looked over his shoulder, grinning wolfishly. "You look faintly disgusted. Do I scare you, little knight?"

"No," she answered, and wished she believed it, "but you smell like a cushion an old woman's left out in the back garden for cats to piss on."

"It's _Old Spice_," he snapped his jaws defensively.

She ignored him. "Where are we?"

"Tunnels. Isn't that obvious?" He grunted and spat at the floor. "Slytherin made them. Liked tunnels, that wizard. Unhealthy fixation for them. Tunnels for brains, he had. They run underneath half the city, but we're just sticking to the ones underneath the Angel. I have something to show you." Merlin stopped and sniffed, his nose twitching in the air like a rat's. He was always moving; even when he was standing perfectly still his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. "And we'd better be quick about it too. He's following us."

"You can smell him?"

"I can always smell death coming."

Nox shivered uneasily. "Look, can I ask a question?"

"Certainly not."

She ignored him. "What is it that you have to show me down here?"

"Patience."

"That's a pity."

"Oh. Why's that?"

"When it comes to mysteries I am emphatically anti-patient," she replied, untangling herself from a veil of cobwebs she had unwittingly stumbled through.

"You're in the right occupation then," Merlin remarked with a mirthless laugh. He paused for a minute at a spot where the tunnel forked. "If I remember correctly, which of course I unfailingly do, it's this way."

Nox eyed him suspiciously as they set off down the left tunnel. Questions were tripping over themselves in her head, each one demanding to be voiced first. Finally she said, in the most casual voice she could muster, "You mentioned something about a Grail quest before assaulting me."

"I did, didn't I?"

She bristled. There was a distinct smirk in his tone.

"Well?" she urged.

"The little knight grows more impatient. I had better explain before she glares my head off, eh?" Merlin told the dog with an ugly sneer. The dog made no reaction. "Don't expect your wretched doom to make much conversation," he grunted. "The Grail was long before Hogwarts time. Not that time is much of a thing in itself, as I should know."

"The Grail's just an old myth, right? Crusades, Knights Templar, everlasting life and all that…" she said. "I don't know much about it other than the usual legends. Wasn't a subject that ever interested my dad much."

"Oh aye, I remember your dad. Bit padded round the stomach him," Merlin said gruffly, gnawing on his broken fingernails.

"You knew my dad?" Nox exclaimed.

"Barely a soul on earth who didn't know Edward. Nosy fella, your dad. Always sticking his nose in. Used to hang around old Elphuna's house in Dorset with Arthur Weasley and some other kid. The three of them fancied themselves as mystery solvers." He let out a triumphant bark-like laugh. "Not that they ever figured _me_ out."

Nox stopped in her tracks. "Arthur Weasley?"

"Aye, and that skinny wee runt. Forget his name. Xeno-something. Bit of a mismatched team they were. Xeno and Arthur were bullied at Hogwarts a lot you see, 'cos of them being a bit addled in the brains." Merlin tapped his skull, looking quite addled himself. "Arthur loved his Muggle junk and Xeno…well… think he stayed out in the sun too long if you know what I mean. Being a Squib your dad was a bit of a cast-out too, not that he ever saw himself as such, mind. Anyway, it was no surprise that the three of them came together." Merlin scratched his scabby chin thoughtfully. "Last I saw Edward we were in a pub in Hungary. He was drunk. And he threw up on my shoes. Technically you owe me a new pair."

He stopped abruptly, waving a crooked hand at the crumbling stone wall they had come to and muttered a few words that must have been a spell, but did not sound like Latin – they barely sounded human. Nevertheless, he had certainly done something for the wall began to ripple and Merlin stepped through as if it were made of water.

After a tentative moment, Nox followed him. She did not know if he would say anything more about her father. She wasn't sure if she could bear it if he did.

They emerged into a large room with a furnace at the back and tall shelves lining the walls. It was too dark and musty to see what the shelves held, and for some reason Nox was glad of it. Her heel skidded on a patch of what she took to be water or the unidentifiable dark gunk you always found in basement rooms and she grasped the collie's scruff to keep balanced.

Alarm was in the tramp's eyes as he looked around the dark shelves.

"Keep your back to the forest and your front to me, little knight," he whispered darkly.

Nox waited, but that seemed to be all. "So…" she started tentatively, looking anywhere but at the walls, "will you tell me about the Grail?"

Merlin looked at her sharply. "Do you want to find it?"

Nox thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Not particularly. Immortality sounds a bit dull to be honest."

Merlin bared his teeth in what might have been his real smile. "Right answer. Then I'll tell you." He stuck a hand inside the layers of soiled patchwork jackets he wore, procuring from an inner pocket a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in silver foil. He took some of the meat filling out of his sandwich and tossed it to the dog, grumbling, "Why a man feels obliged to feed his own doom is beyond me."

With another snap of his fingers a small fire burst into life in the middle of the floor.

"Sit there," he instructed. "We're safe for now."

"Why don't you use a wand like other wizards?" she asked, squatting down on the opposite side of the fire from the tramp and his loyal collie.

He smirked. "If I'd relied on a wand all my life I wouldn't have gotten far from the Grawny man. But now's not the time for that. It's the Founders' Tale you want to hear." With a small twig he stirred the fire slowly, an inhuman smile tugging at his lips. "The Grail has many forms and its power is as dreadful as it is good. Once it belonged to Bran, the giant King of Briton, and it was his dearest treasure. When the King of Ireland came over the sea to claim Bran's sister, a feast was thrown and during the merriment Bran let his treasure slip into the hands of the Irish King. In that age the Grail was a black cauldron that could restore the dead to life."

"Long years passed and indeed the Grail came to play a role in my life too, but that is a story that pales into significance against lovely Helga's tale, for the Grail indeed came into her possession and long may it stay there. During those dark ages a terrible plague struck this island – the _Unseelie Court_ returned who flew the night, plucking up children and lonely travellers off the roads. The four Founders of Hogwarts trapped the Court inside the Grail, sealing them inside the cup with the One Word. Only Helga and her closest friend, the Lady Ravenclaw, knew of the Word and this knowledge became a source of contention and the beginning of the Founders' Wars." Merlin leaned over the fire towards her. "That is the power of the Grail, little knight. That is why you cannot let _Her_ have it. That is what the Winter Queen seeks above all else."

The fire began to sputter and as it did Nox became aware that there had been voices drifting in the air as Merlin had talked. At first she had simply thought they were whispered cries of the Angel, but as the smoke from the fire cleared and the room returned to normal she knew they had somehow been woven from Merlin's words. While the tramp had talked there had been laughing somewhere far off and a clatter of plates and glasses, like a banquet; Bran's banquet perhaps. And then a sound like wind rushing, of great leathery wings beating the air; the _Unseelie Court_, she knew instinctively, and an image of Helga had filled her mind, just like the painting Viktor had hung in hall of Blackwater Hall; the one that Salazar Slytherin had painted. And Nox had thought she had heard the One Word, seen Helga's lips form each golden letter…

Merlin tapped the tips of his bony fingers together and stared hard at the fire while the collie rested its head on his thigh, whimpering.

"You see, with Helga's cup in her hands Gudrun would return the world back to a time when night was really a thing to fear, oh so much more so than death."

"But she's dead. She died a thousand years ago. How on earth can she come back?" asked Nox in frustration. "I thought death was the end."

"It is. Or it _should_ be," he answered grimly. "But with strange aeons even Death may die." His eyes darted towards her. "But you must remember that most important law of nature, little knight. Your friend, George Weasley, will try to break that law. You cannot let that happen."

The Angel shuddered into life above them. The walls bled voices from the cracks and shadowy spaces. She may have been a Muggle, but Nox had been around Fred, George and Luna long enough to know what their magic felt like. But the magic here was different and overwhelmed her like the blackness over the moon. It darkened her mind.

A handful of kindling, bits of oose and rubbish from Merlin's pockets, was thrown on the fire. She edged closer. Something in her chest felt frozen, like a lump of ice that had to be thawed by the small dancing flames. How could George ever rewind death? He wasn't a powerful enough wizard. And was there even such a spell? The very idea left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. There were people she had lost in her life and would gladly give anything to see again, but something at the root of her told her that kind of power, if indeed it existed, was not to be used lightly, if at all.

She felt a weight settle by her side and thick course fur brushing her leg. Merlin's dog. She gripped the collie's coat, feeling a little better, as though she had a firmer grip on reality between her fingers now. Then she looked up at the fire and saw Merlin's eyes glinting red in the firelight. He watched the space over her shoulder like an animal, silent and unmoving. The cocky smile was gone from his face. Instinct made her rise to her feet.

Her boots slipped in the unidentifiable gunk. Only now she knew it was blood; now she knew what the strange shadowy lumps on the surrounding shelves were. There were bones in the furnace.

"He is here," he said. "Run."

**oOo**

After finally admitting to himself that he had completely and utterly lost all trace of Nox, Percy had wandered the upper floors of the Angel Hotel for close to two hours before surrendering to his grumbling empty stomach. After getting lost one final time, he headed back to the board room Angus Postlethwaite, the bank manager, had earlier rented out to his host of hired psychics and ghost hunters. To his surprise, almost everyone had gathered there, looking ashen faced and concerned. His heart sank when he realised Nox was not amongst them.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did you find something?"

To his surprise, the young assistant from Psychic Mystique, Ariadne, collapsed into a chair, covered her face with her beringed hands and burst into tears. Miss Whittle patted her shoulders gently, looking haggard-faced and troubled herself.

"Mr. Darkwood's technical assistant has disappeared," Postlethwaite explained, dabbing his enormous forehead with a handkerchief.

Percy frowned. "But that's impossible. I only saw him a little over an hour ago. He was accompanying my partner," he said. "How can you be so sure that he has disappeared?"

Ariadne shuddered and hiccupped through her fingers. "I-I feel that his spirit has been…consumed…lost to the dark…" Her beaded necklaces and silver bracelets clanked and jangled as she choked back another sob. "There are so many trapped spirits here… So many…"

Percy fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead silently muttered, "_Good grief_." He never had possessed much patience for self-proclaimed psychics. Divination had been his least favourite subject at Hogwarts. Professor Trelawney's mumbo jumbo inner eye nonsense had nearly driven him spare. He liked facts. Cold, hard, facts. Things he could see with his own two eyes. There was always a rational answer for everything, even in the wizarding world.

"Look here, let's not get overly dramatic. It's only been an hour. He's probably wandering around with my partner," he posed. "Or perhaps he got a bit of a fright and left?"

The ghost hunter, Israel Darkwood, shook his dark head grimly. "There is a slim chance of my assistant fleeing, Mr Weasley. Aidan never finishes a job halfway through and he does not scare easily. Not unless there is something to be scared of. We also discovered one of his cameras smashed on the fifth floor-"

Percy waved him off in a graciously posturing manner. "That could have been an accident."

Israel Darkwood shot him a cat-like unimpressed glance, and continued on as though Percy had never said a thing. "In addition, we were able to check CCTV recordings for footage of Aidan leaving the building, which proved fruitless. I am not a theosophist, Mr Weasley, but neither am I a cynic. I merely deal with what is in front of me." Israel Darkwood picked up a laptop that had been sitting on the table and turned the screen towards Percy. There were scrolls upon scrolls of information detailing temperature changes and EMF readings throughout the Angel Hotel. "Previous studies have shown that places considered to be 'haunted' typically have more environmental field variance, most commonly in the local magnetic fields. Normally those things that we perceive as ghostly encounters are often natural shifts in static magnetic fields. But how do you explain thermal sensor readings calculating sudden temperature drops of fourteen degrees in isolated areas? The computers have also been logging continual tremors."

Percy's voice went up one chord with annoyance. "I haven't felt any tremors and I've been all over this building."

"Neither have we," Postlethwaite confessed, "but when I went upstairs to check the bedrooms, the furniture in every room had been moved around. That's heavy stuff. Victorian, most of it. No one could have moved that furniture on their own and in so little time. And what's worse, this is the first time we've had any trouble during the day." He groaned in misery, looking at his hands as if he were imagining money slipping through his fingers.

Darkwood turned towards Miss Whittle who was still comforting her sobbing assistant. "What is your take on this, Methuselah?"

She hesitated, then said primly, "We may have some cause for concern. Spirits of the undead usually dislike the daylight. If we are getting such strong reactions now it may be that the spirit or spirits we are dealing with are growing in strength and reacting negatively to our presence," she admitted. Ariadne whimpered at this and Miss Whittle closed her beringed fingers tighter around the girl's shoulders. "My belief is that we are dealing with a malicious poltergeist. However, before I make any solid conclusions I would like to conduct a séance."

"That can be extremely dangerous if you don't know what you're doing," Percy said sharply, earning himself another scowl from the elderly psychic.

"Then it is a good thing that I _do _know what I am doing, young man."

Percy bristled at being spoken down to once again. He drew himself up importantly in a vain effort to gather his dented pride. He had no doubt that the Angel Hotel was haunted, for the smell of blood still hung thickly in the air, now and again threatening to overwhelm his senses, but he felt it was his duty to dissuade these people from their mission. They were Muggles after all and very likely over their heads. He would have to call in the proper authorities once he had located Nox.

"Well, in any case," he started, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "it would be unwise to travel in groups of less than two people. Mr Postlethwaite, I would advise your workers here to do the same. And perhaps you should close the bank for the remainder of the afternoon." Percy ignored the bank manager, who let out another miserable wail, and continued. "I shall contact my co-worker-"

"Your co-worker has very likely disappeared too, Mr Weasley. We agreed to check in regularly and she has not been sighted or heard from within the last two hours," said Darkwood, grimly. "And if you are correct in saying she was with Aidan the last time you saw her, then I'm afraid she has disappeared like the others. I'm sorry."

Percy was almost trembling with rage. "Well your apology just makes up for everything now, doesn't it?"

"You hardly sound sincere, Mr Darkwood," Miss Whittle said critically. "All this nonsense machinery didn't stop your assistant from vanishing. And we have no proof that those missing are dead. Can we trust anything that comes out of your mouth?"

Israel Darkwood drew them both a very measured stare, then said simply, "Aidan knew the risks. As I'm sure Miss Wolfe did." His tone carried regret, but something about the acceptance of the possible death of his assistant struck a nasty chord in Percy.

"Christ. That's it! I'm calling the bloody police again," Postlethwaite declared, slapping his thighs and getting to his feet. "One more disappearance under this roof and the entire bloody building will be condemned. What am I supposed to tell authorities? 'Sorry, they just up and disappeared like magic, only with more disappearing. _Much_ more. And then, you know what's next? Do you? _I'll_ be out of a bloody job, that's bloody what!"

Then suddenly, the door flung open and the power cut out, plunging them into darkness much too absolute for the middle of the afternoon. Percy automatically drew his wand. Downstairs, the screams of frightened bank clerks and customers rose through the floors. Something pounded against the walls. Thin dark shapes flitted like fingers of shadow against the walls; the cries of the living mixed with those of the dead and the singing began once more:

_Be bold, be bold_

_But not too bold…_

Postlethwaite had crawled underneath the large board-meeting table in the centre of the room and was crouching with one arm over his head, with the knuckles of his free hand in his mouth. The pounding grew so heavy that the doors and windows rattled under the blows. Letters began to scrawl themselves across every surface: _abracadabra, abracadabra, abracadabra_. And then five words printed themselves across the screen of Darkwood's laptop:

'Danse Macabre.'

The pounding stopped immediately. Lights flickered on as the power returned.

The young assistant from Psychic Mystique was trembling uncontrollably. "I'm calling the police!" she exclaimed in a panic. "I'm calling them right now!"

She was reaching for the phone when there came a dull tap from the window behind her. Ariadne cried out and stumbled back. The blinds were up. It was broad daylight. And every one of them saw the listless body hanging from the cord outside the window. The sight made Percy's stomach contract horribly and he raised a hand to his mouth, feeling instantly squeamish. The skin visible beneath the thin night-robe the corpse wore was greyish and covered in sores, like something that had been dead and hanging there for many years.

With a strangled cry, Ariadne leapt to her feet and fled from the room, throwing the door closed behind her.

"Stop! Come back!" Percy hollered and began to chase after the young woman, but his heroic attempts were hindered as he tripped over the bank manager, who was again huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth and chewing on his knuckles. He struggled out of the tangle of limbs, finally reaching for the wand tucked into his sleeve. "_Alohomora!_" he shouted, flicking his wand at the closed door, and stumbling through it, but it was too late. By the time he had reached the outer hall, there was no sight of Ariadne. All was quiet as the grave.

**oOo**

**

* * *

**

Hope you enjoyed that! Sorry there's no Fred, but he'll be in the next chapter, never you fear.

**Notes:** There is indeed an African Hunter/Gatherer tribe called the and a very famous book was written about their beliefs in magic. I should know, I've written a paper on it lol! Also, there has been several spectral encounters at High Gate Cemetery in London and no freaking wonder, it is TERRIFYING (I can't wait to go see it!).

In a random piece of folklore related information, did you know in Hungary, instead of the Bogeyman, parents tell their children the copper penis owl will carry them off if they misbehave? God I love Europe.


	26. Casebook Closed: Gluttony

**A/N:** I'm going to keep this author's note short and sweet, because frankly updates have been so few and far between that I'm pretty sure everyone just wants to get on and read the chapter lol! All I can do is apologise. Those who know me personally know that I've been going through a tough time lately. A lot of things have happened in the past few months, including my dear bookshop closing. I began writing Twin Vice in that shop and it was without a doubt the main inspiration for the story, the heart and soul of my town, and a very dear friend.

So many apologies for the less than frequent updates, but thank you so much for sticking by it. I can't even tell you how much that means to me. So thank you, and MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

* * *

_Brood of hell, you're not a mortal!  
Shall the entire house go under?_

-The Sorcerer's Apprentice

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

Casebook Closed: Gluttony

**oOo**

Running. Nox hated running. Why some people did it for pleasure was beyond her. Still, running for your life spurred you on a bit. The tunnel behind them was getting smaller, as if it were shrinking with each impossibly long stride the Plague Doctor took. Even from this distance she could hear the rattling breath through the creature's beak-like mask, like something very old and very slow. A stitch stabbed her right side like a knife.

"What is he?" she panted.

"More a matter of _it_ than _he_," Merlin replied, cackling. To her amazement he seemed to be enjoying fleeing for his life. There was a definite skip in his cat-like step. "I told you. The Plague Doctor is neither man, wizard, nor Muggle;" he continued, "neither alive nor dead. He is a monster; a memory of the Plague sealed long ago inside these walls."

"Yes," she snapped, "but how did it become like _this_?"

"Mind your manners and keep your patience," Merlin hissed through a slit in his sharp teeth. "That room back there was a nasty place of unnatural experiments on human flesh – a doctor's bid to rid the world of the Black Death that turned his skin and soul into something much more terrible. That kind of sin leaves a footprint on this world."

"Is it a Vengeful?"

Merlin nodded. "Oh aye, more or less so. Vengefuls are born out of strong human emotion: sadness, rage, fear, vengeance. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful the Vengeful becomes."

The Angel trembled beneath their feet.

"But I've never met a Vengeful this strong before," she admitted. "It's like it has the whole building under control!"

Merlin casually picked at his tombstone teeth, only vaguely watching the path in front of him as they sped down it. "Hmm, and why might you think that is?" he asked.

Nox did not answer. She had suspected from the beginning that a shard was playing a role in the haunting of the Angel Hotel. There was always a feeling of emptiness whenever a shard was around; cold and emptiness, and forgetting.

"I do hope you understand now that this Vengeful is unhindered by attempts to seal it by its name, birth and death date alone," Merlin chatted offhandedly. "It has attached itself to one of your shards and therefore without the Vengeful's Form, Truth and Regret you cannot destroy it."

Nox blinked. "What do you mean by form, truth and regret?"

"Form is an object's true state. Truth is the state of the object; how it came to be. Regret is the state of the soul." Merlin's eyes gleamed. "In order to extract a shard from a person's heart, you must first learn the truth – their sin – and their regret. Isn't that correct?"

Nox nodded, numbly, her mind thumbing through her previous cases. But there was still a glaring problem. Her previous subjects had been, for all intents and purposes, alive. The Plague Doctor on the other hand had been dead for centuries. She could feel the chill of the gloved hand that offered death reaching out behind them. Shrinking from it, she choked back her fear and willed her body to move faster through the pitch dark tunnels.

A thought struck her. "Why has this Plague Doctor never appeared before now?" she asked.

"Oh, he has." Merlin's eyes twinkled in the gloom. "The Ministry sealed him up, but the shard released him. That, little Knight, is what's given him renewed strength. And now…"

"It consumes all in its' path," she finished. "Gluttony…"

Merlin nodded his wolfish head and grinned, his beady golden eyes flashing. "The Form is found!"

Nox could not smile. "But how can I find out its truth and regret? It's not like I can bleeding well interview him!"

"Keh!" Merlin spat acidly. "Given up already have you? You're a detective aren't you, or have I been misinformed?" His ugly tombstone grin grew wider. "To find the Truth, you must first discover the Plague Doctor's true Form."

"And the regret?"

He looked at her slyly through twisted tendrils of scraggly hair and said with a blinding smile "To gain a Vengeful's Regret you must uncover its' True Name and have it speak it out loud."

"But how? It's a monster."

"Have a little pity. Even the most evil-seeming are rarely that." said Merlin in a whisper that might have been just for himself.

Then, like a great cat, the tramp leapt off the path and slipped between the cracks in the tunnel walls, his black and white doom padding loyally at his heels. His voice was so faint, Nox wondered if she was imagining it, which led her to wonder whether she had imagined Merlin and his dog altogether. Unfortunately the cold shred of logic she had managed to cling onto as a paranormal detective insisted that her eyes had not lied. Her eyes never lied.

With an alarmed jolt she realised her pace had slowed due to Merlin's distraction and there behind her, not a few yards away, was the Plague Doctor. Its breath rattled through the sickle-like beak. He was not running. Nox realised with horror that he did not need to run in order to catch her. Death walked like the Plague Doctor, a steady and inexorable walk that seemed to take forever while moving astonishingly fast.

She turned and fled.

**oOo**

For the first time in his after-life, Fred knew what it meant to be dead. It was more than a coffin and a hole in the ground. It was more than having no reflection, no substance. It was more than having a conked-out heart.

He cast the Angel Hotel a swift glance as he drifted past. The bank situated in the lower floors looked closed for the remainder of the afternoon. The windows were darkened and the entrance was shut. A crowd of agitated Muggles were gathering at the doors, waving their bankbooks and angrily chapping on the black windows. Fred peered closer. A foot long red cross had been painted on the main door; dark, wet and glistening in the milky afternoon light. With a shrug, he carried on through increasingly anxious crowds of Muggles until he reached the rusted gates of Weasley Manor and drifted through. The path through the tangled garden of weeds and headless rose stems was sparkling with frost and melting snow.

Being dead meant the whole world moved on and past and through you like you weren't there, even though you were, just like his mother's gaze had the first time he re-entered _The Burrow_ after he'd been buried. Being dead was the way Angelina never fully looked him in the eye when he was telling a joke and the deep lines on George's face. It was owning no future, no present, only a past. And once that was gone or forgotten he truly would be a ghost, because all ghosts forget. Eventually.

He drifted through the large oak door of Weasley Manor and into the main hall. He stood for a while in the centre of the room and stared at the chequered marble slabs until the rigid pattern began to play tricks on his eyes.

The bad smell was worse now. There was blood mixed with thyme, sharp and tangy, like iron in his mouth. It was sour too; rotting vegetation mixed with old wine. And if he'd been listening, he would have heard the small voices through the wall close to the Angel. But Fred was feeling too sullen and bitter to acknowledge any of it, because now he knew, now he _understood_ with a certainty that frightened him something that George had known all along. Life was for the living, not for the dead.

He walked slowly up the stairs, not bothering to avoid _that _step, the one that dropped straight down into Peru, floating briefly over it and continuing up and up until he reached the first floor, and stopped.

He could hear music.

It was music unlike any he had ever heard. Most tunes he was familiar with began with a beginning. They would swell, twist, wind up into a fantastic crescendo, then stop suddenly or trail into a gentle whisper. This music was nothing like that. It was the prelude to an end at the edge of perception; the overture of the graveyard. If haunted mirrors and barrows and black cats could sing in wonky harmony and have the tune distilled through a dusty violin of silver strings, the lyrics written by the fingers of a dead court jester with a wicked sense of humour, this is what it would sound like. And it was coming from the rooftop.

The second floor of Weasley Manor was largely unexplored owing to the very basic fact that Fred and George had not even explored the entirety of the Halls of Fortitude. Their house appeared to have no respect for the logic of time and space. If it had had a face, it would have sneered at Newton and called Einstein something very unflattering. Fred did, however, know where the roof was and that was generally up. Exploring had lost its intrigue in the past few years. After all, being able to float through walls kind of did away with the mystery and the fun of procuring a big rusty key from a hidden drawer to unlock that strange door at the end of the hall.

If he had been alive, he would have walked along the balcony landing that overlooked the main entrance. Then he would have walked through the passage to his right and up a flight of rickety wooden ladders into the attic and out of the skylight and onto the rooftop. But he was not alive, Fred thought very bitterly. So he drifted through the air, thin and wispy, like a dandelion head caught in the breeze, and up through the great glass panelled dome.

Jack Frost was crouched on the rooftop, singing like the mad court jester, playing his fiddle and tapping his foot to the manic rhythm.

_Emperor, your crown won't help you!  
__Peasant, child, the same hand dealt you__  
I've come to take you by the hand  
Over river deep to distant land_

The hour is bitter, like the grave  
Mother, daughter, priest and slave  
Sweeping gentle, in a trance  
Come and join La Morte Danse.

Dance Macabre, Da-

Jack Frost stopped singing. His head turned shortly towards Fred, the angle not quite right. He was like a bird, Fred thought – a scabby London sparrow. He wasn't surprised to see him here. Like Weasley Manor, the elf didn't appear to have any respect for time or space, slipping between dream worlds and reality like walking from one class to another. Jack's small bright eyes looked him up and down. A grin spread itself across his pointed face like butter, the points of his icicle teeth showing over dark blue lips.

"Well don't-choo look like a barrel o' sunshine," he commented sarcastically.

Drearily, Fred took a seat beside him on the icy rooftop. Jack plucked at the strings of his instrument. They sat in silence, neither enjoying the others' company.

"I'm dead, by the way," said Fred at length. He was scowling at the rooftops across the road. "Conked out. Done and dusted. Popped my clogs, had my lot and shuffled off my mortal coil."

"Very poetic of yeh."

"Cheers."

"Kind've caught my attention, mind. You being see-through an' all," said Jack dryly, putting away his fiddle. "That why yer lookin' like yeh crawled out of the wrong side of someone else's grave?" He snorted disdainfully. "And here ah thought you might be some fun. But yer just like all the rest. Once the dead realise their proper _dead,_ like, they lose themselves. Memories are the first thing t' go. Names is the last. But yeh'll be around a long time before that happens."

When Fred didn't respond, Jack shrugged and said, "Suit yerself." Carefully, he plucked a wriggling beetle from the innards of his moth-eaten suit jacket. He let it crawl in and out of his disjointed fingers, watching it with the lazy interest of a cat. Then he popped it into his mouth and crunched noisily.

Fred folded his arms across his knees. He unfolded them. He clenched his fists. The solemn expression looked alien on the normally jovial terrain of his face.

Then he asked darkly, "Do you remember your real name?"

"Jack's my name," the elf replied nonchalantly, picking a spider out of his nose and happily squishing it between his thumb and forefinger.

Fred wasn't sure what kind of answer he'd expected to get. He wasn't sure if the elf ever remembered a time when he had been Helga Hufflepuff's brother. Whatever Gudrun had done to him, he was not Puck, not anymore. But still…Jack was solid. Jack was real, much more real than a ghost. Fred had to know how, even if Jack was completely off his head, he just had to know that there was a chance at the impossible.

"There is, y'know."

Fred turned. Jack was grinning at him like a skull. His beady eyes swivelled madly and he leaned close in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Lots of ways. Lots 'n lots of ways to return to the living and all of 'em bad. Each one worse than the last," said Jack conversationally. "It's gotta be bad if Death doesn't want you. The Well at the World's End? That'll bring you back. But only after drownin' a bunch of virgins or a group of wide, watery-eyed orphans. Then there's the Philosopher's Stone, but yeh need a breath of life in yeh in the first place for it to do any good. Besides, I heard it was done off with." He paused thoughtfully, tapping his chin. "Course, there's always _that_ one…"

There was something guileless in Jack Frost's smile. Fred recognised it as the look of a merchant about to sell him a leaky cauldron.

"The Resurrection Stone of the Deathly Hallows." The elf leered. "Plucked from the World Tree by Death himself! Oh yeah…_that'd _do it. That'd bring yeh back, whether yeh want to return or not."

Fred stared at Jack as the elf cackled and crackled carelessly. He thought of the childhood dreams Ditchwater Nam had sealed him inside when she had captured him alongside George and Nox on Scrum. He knew now that those were no mere dreams, but fragments of the past: Jack's past. Hufflepuff's past. Gudrun past. Salazar Slytherin's.

Fred remembered the blizzard as if it were his own memory, remembered Puck kneeling by the body of his friend, the tall figure of Gudrun towering over them both. Fred remembered how the icy chill of the storm cut his throat like shards of glass, remembered how the Snow Witch's long white fingers waggled and caressed the air; how those same fingers reached into Puck's chest and pulled out boy's heart as though plucking an apple from a tree.

'_Taking the heart of your friend is a harsh crime in this world… as harsh as the frost….'_

Fred hated the idea of fate or destiny. He had never really bought the load of toff about Harry's 'Prophecy', but he knew the dreams of his childhood were linked to his present. He studied Jack's face closely.

"And what about you?" asked Fred darkly. "What did you do to wind up like this? Bump someone off for a Resurrection Stone? Nick some old lady's purse for eternal life?" He could not keep the bitterness out of his tone. "You were human once."

Jack turned sharply, looking murderous. He no longer looked like the supercilious jester. Just because something is funny or peculiar, or just a little off-beat, does not mean it isn't dangerous. The maniac light in his eye turned dead cold. He glared violently and when he spoke his voice was neither Jack's nor Puck's, but somewhere strangled in between.

"Nothing you'd ever be willing to do."

Fred nodded and looked Jack gravely in the eye. "I really hope not."

Jack sniffed. Then he rose and stretched theatrically. His long disjointed arms dangled at his sides, as though the threads that bound him together were starting to fray. "I'm late," he said. "Late for a very important date." He smiled nastily, showing many teeth. "A bit like you."

There was a shiver in the world and a dust of ice crystals, and Jack Frost disappeared leaving Fred alone on the rooftop, watching the world moving below him. The crowd outside the Angel Hotel was steadily growing.

**oOo**

Something was going on, Bill Weasley was sure of it. It wasn't just the commotion outside Gringotts Bank that had alerted him. It was there in the wind or in the corner of his eye, but every time he turned his scarred head to catch it, whatever had been lurking vanished into shadow and slipped out of reach. It would always return. Late during the long nights, while the soft sigh of Victoire's breathing and the smell of Fleur's damp hair on the pillow filled the bedroom, he could hear the fox and the hare cry, _The Wolves are running! _And in his blood he knew it too.

There had been whisperings lately; rumours flitting amongst members of the Ministry, passing from shopper to merchant along Diagon Alley. It was always with an air of macabre humour. People joked nervously that the Death Eaters had risen again. Others laughed that someone had forgotten to tell winter to bog off and make room for spring. The older few said the Fey Folk were coming out of the hills, and that made Bill shiver uncomfortably. Nobody ever understood that what they couldn't see may still be about to occur.

Ignoring the indignant shouts of his Goblin employees, Bill marched outside. People were crowded along Diagon Alley chattering excitedly. He recognised Katie Bell, one of the twins' close friends, squeezing through the crowds. Bill raised her hand to catch her attention. Katie smiled and made one last ditch effort to inch past two very stout wizards engrossed in conversation.

"Hello, Bill. It's been a while," said Katie, then jabbed her thumb at the bustling crowds behind her. "This lot have gone bonkers today."

"Do you know why?" asked Bill, his eyes skimming the crowd with a small frown.

"Yeah," she said. "Well, sort of. There's something going on along Pentonville Road. Think it might be a Poltergeist or some disturbance. Apparently it's attracted some Muggles' attention." She looked sympathetic. "I feel sorry for your dad. Don't think it will be very pleasant for him at work today- hey! Where are you going?"

"Thanks, sorry," Bill muttered hurriedly, ignoring Katie who was wearing an expression of confusion and concern, and strode off through the crowd towards his brothers' shop.

As the eldest of the Weasley siblings, Bill had developed a finely tuned instinct when it came to his twin brothers. He had had his suspicions for months that Fred and George had something to do with the strange goings on lately. Now he hoped to Godric he was wrong.

**oOo**

"Thought I was the great nit doing all the moping today," Lee commented lightly. The remark went unacknowledged of course. George was pretending to be hard at work fixing a cauldron that had grown so tired of Teddy Lupin harassing it that it had gotten to its feet and stormed out of the shop in a strop.

Lee grunted. "Thrilling conversationalist you are."

George leaned back on his haunches and shot him a swift smile. "Sorry. Nightmare galloping cauldrons are. Good for writing incriminating evidence on and watching them scarper, mind you," he laughed, but as he turned away, Lee caught the dark shadow falling across his friend's face.

Lee hesitated, then said tentatively, "You alright man? Seriously?"

George began nodding brightly, then stopped. His shoulders drooped and he sighed tiredly. "Have you ever looked at your face so long in the mirror that you become a stranger?"

Lee blinked, unsure of how to answer or if indeed George wanted an answer at all. But that was George for you. He never asked for help or advice, though he gave it freely to anyone who needed it, along with an exploding pair of pants and a punching telescope.

Without a word, Lee put his hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling for a moment the shared grief that always lingered, threatening to press on their lungs and heart like a cold brass weight. Whatever Fred was, despite having him around to talk and laugh and jeer with them just like the old days, nothing could disguise the fact that his remains were mouldering deep and lonely in the ground. And one day he and George would leave him lonelier still.

George looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting in an almost-smile. "Sod it. Let's close up for today. Nearly five o'clock anyway. How about we grab Fred and head to the Leaky for a pint?"

Lee smiled. "Sounds good to-"

Just then, the clown head above the door burst into peels of wicked laughter as Bill burst into the shop. They knew by the expression on his face that something was deeply wrong; steely, grave, an almost animalistic attentiveness – the way Bill had looked before the Battle of Hogwarts.

George's stomach lurched. He knew what his brother was going to say before he said it.

"Something's happened along Pentonville Road." Bill looked directly at George with sympathetic eyes. "I don't know where exactly-"

But George was already up and running across the shop floor, and with a violent twist and a resounding _crack_ that caused several jars of jellied eels to shatter, he vanished out of sight.

**oOo**

She could more than see the Plague Doctor now. Every one of her five senses was attuned to his close proximity, his steady gait through the tunnels, moving like a shadow towards her. She climbed higher, tearing up stone steps that crumbled dangerously beneath her feet and Nox suddenly wanted nothing more than to see sunlight again, to see a familiar face. She thought of Fred, his big daft grin egging her on, and her legs pumped harder, giving her the final boost of energy she needed to leap the last few stairs.

The Angel Hotel felt full of the Plague Doctor's presence; the sour smelling darkness covering the building like living, writhing velvet. Nox could not stop herself then – she had to know how close he was, had to see him with her own eyes.

And in the instant that she glanced behind, her eyes frantically searching the dark, her foot caught the lip of the final step. Down she tumbled, cracking her chin painfully on the stone and biting down hard on her tongue. Blood filled her mouth as she scrambled to her feet. Then the she saw it out of the corner of her eye; a hand, scabbed and ancient, darting out of the darkness like a snake and grabbing at her throat.

There was an explosion and the world turned briefly to chaos. The door at the top of the steps flew off its hinges and a strangely familiar voice shouted out a spell that caused white/gold light to spill into the gloom. The scabbed hand shrank away and Nox, who had not stopped running, went flying into Luna Lovegood, sending them both sprawling gracelessly to the floor.

"Luna!" Nox gasped, the breath tearing her lungs. The fall had winded them both. She scrambled clumsily to her knees, pulling the young witch up with her. "What on earth are you doing here?!"

"Hello, Nox. _Colloportus!_" she said casually, waving her wand at the door they had just tumbled through. It locked with a click. "I thought you could use some help. I don't think my spell will stop it from getting through, but it might give us time to escape. I do hope so. It didn't look very happy."

"We'd better not stick around to find out," Nox said weakly, hastily wiping the sweat and grime from her face. "Come on, let's get moving. We have to find Percy quickly. If that thing isn't chasing us now, it'll be chasing someone else."

**oOo**

George Apparated in the snowy lane that ran between Weasley Manor and the Angel Hotel. The Angel somehow did not look like the bright and friendly neighbour it normally did in comparison to the disorderly gothic architecture of his own home. It looked rotten and neglected. If buildings could get sick, he thought, the Angel was at Death's door.

Still spinning from his hasty commute, George ran towards the back entrance, firing a spell at the locked door without a moment's hesitation. A red spark from his wand zipped across the Angel's back courtyard and struck the door with a spitting _hiss_. For a moment he thought it had worked and charged towards it. Then, there was a ripple in the air and an invisible blow sent George reeling backwards.

"OW- _bugger!_"

"George?"

"Fred?"

"No, it's Dumbledore," Fred said sarcastically, hovering palely above him. "Course it's me. Nice landing. Meant to do that of course?" He grinned.

"Of course," replied George, nodding solemnly. "A Weasley always lands on his arse."

Fred's eyes turned upwards to the Angel looming above them and his expression changed. "I thought you'd come. Something's up with this place alright. Percy and Nox haven't come out in hours, and there's a whole crowd of Muggles round the front. Few witches and wizards too, mind."

"Well I can't get inside this way," said George, getting to his feet restlessly. "Let's try round the front." They ran back towards the main entrance to the building, only to collide with a throng of angry Muggles who were demanding entrance into the bank. This door, like the back entrance, appeared to be magically sealed. George moaned. "I knew it had to be a tough Vengeful or some great tentacled face-sucking pillock. Why did we bleeding well let them go in by themselves?!"

"Just because the building has suddenly shut itself up, locking our brother and nosey Muggle inside, doesn't automatically mean there's anything wrong," said Fred, with an unconcerned wave of his hand. "When we hear Percy's spine-chilling, blood-curdling, girlish, freeze-the-marrow-in-your-bones scream, then we can panic. But only a little."

George looked at his twin doubtfully, then he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair so that it stuck up at crazy angles. "I told Luna that Nox was working here. She's in there too. I've gotten her mixed up in all of this _._" He sighed. "I promised myself I wouldn't do that again."

Fred frowned. "I don't think you could stop Loony if you wanted to, mate. And anyway, this is Percy, Luna and Nox we're on about," he teased. "Honestly, I feel sorry for the Vengeful."

"We don't know _what's_ in there, Fred," snapped George. "How are you so flipping calm all of a sudden?"

"Maybe 'cause I have a bit more faith in their abilities," Fred replied coolly. "And you might want to shout a little louder if you want your gathering crowd to demand an encore. Don't hold back. Still a few people in Peckham didn't hear you."

George ignored him, fishing the wand out from his sleeve. "I knew I should have gone with them. 'Scuse me, sorry, out of the way," he muttered distractedly, pushing further into the crowd.

"Guess it's true what they say about a positive attitude," Fred muttered to himself. "Might not solve your problems, but it will piss people off enough to make it worth the effort."

The twins reached the large tinted glass window of the bank and tried to peer inside, but before they could glimpse anything substantial an enormous barrel-chested figure blocked their view.

"Mr Weasley. I knew you and your sort would be sniffing around here at some point." Argos Thickley glared down at him under his one bushy eyebrow. "You crackpots deal in the grave more than a morgue keeper."

George ignored him. "Out of the way Thickley, you great poxy prat," he said, pushing passed him and roughly bumping shoulders with a second familiar figure who was also anxiously peering inside the bank. George groaned mentally. This was the last person he needed to meet.

"Mr Weasley!" squawked Rolf.

"George," said George flatly.

There was an awkward silence between them, primarily made awkward by the fact that George could not meet the other wizard's face for fear that if he did he'd have to rearrange it. Fred, who had been enjoying haunting a very bewildered and disgruntled looking Thickley, floated palely between them, his eyes flicking from one to the other.

"Friend of yours then," said Fred with a smirk.

"This is Rolf Scamander," said George, coolly. "Grandson of Newt Scamander, the Magizoologist."

"Hello!" said Rolf, smiling brightly. "Lovely to meet you at last, Fred."

"He's off his nut," George added.

"Pardon?"

"He said you have a nice butt," Fred clarified pleasantly.

"Oh. Quite!" Rolf turned back to face George, his face turning anxious. "A friend from your shop told me my dear Luna may be in some sort of difficulty. Have you seen her? Is she inside this building? I have tried to reason with the lovely Muggle chap over there, says he's an obeseman-"

"A policeman," Fred corrected, while George rolled his eyes skyward.

"Yes, indeed, but he says the building is closed due to an electrical fault." Rolf glanced up uneasily at the looming, growing snow clouds. The sky looked like it was about to fall on them. "Luna means the world to me. She's more precious to me than the Galumphing Gillimander. I do hope she hasn't been… mixed up in anything too dangerous."

George shifted his gaze to the ground, apprehending Rolf's unspoken accusation. He looked around at Fred, who clapped an icy hand on his shoulder and muttered in his ear.

"Happy Valentines, mate."

**oOo**

Nox hadn't spared a moment, having taken Luna by the hand and running like buggery, hurtling along the corridors of the Angel Hotel and up two more flights of stairs before she felt safe enough to slow their pace down. There had to be better jobs out there, she thought irritably; jobs where the customers didn't have a personal grudge against your life.

"It was very brave of you trying to fight a monster like that," Luna said musingly, "a bit like bees chasing away dragons."

Nox gave a guilty laugh. "I really hate to spoil your heroic image of me, Luna, but you actually caught me in the process of scarpering for my life." She took a deep breath, then attempted to give Luna a stern no-nonsense look. "Listen, Luna, you can't let that thing touch you. It's a Plague Doctor. Or it used to be…"

"A Plague Doctor?" Luna repeated, with a tilt of her head.

"Doctors who visited neighbourhoods in order to tell whether or not those who lived there were afflicted with the Black Death," Nox explained. "The beaks they wear were stuffed with herbs to stop them breathing in the disease. They were called heroes, men who put their lives at risk." She swallowed. Her throat felt sickly dry. "But, this one… When he was alive, I think he carried out experiments on the tenants who stayed in the Angel Hotel."

"Oh," said Luna, her tone soft and sad. "I thought there were a lot of Muggle spirits here. The air feels heavier when there are Vengefuls around. Like dark clouds before the rain."

Nox nodded silently. Images of the horror in the room she had witnessed trickled into her mind: the vague outline of something roughly the size and shape of several bodies stacked neatly along the shelves; the old bones jutting out of the furnace…

"There are voices," Nox continued. "They come every now and again. And writing on the walls and a song-"

"I heard a song when I entered the building," Luna said, then began to recite dreamily, "_'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. You can run for your life, but the gates will hold'._ It's an old Plague song like 'Ring Around the Roses'. It was written when King Charles II closed the gates of London to stop people infected with the Black Death from getting out. Your hand is quite sweaty by the way. Did you know that?"

"Sorry," Nox muttered and tried wiping her slippery palm on her trousers.

Luna smiled kindly. "I don't mind."

As they walked Nox told Luna about the assignment she and Percy had been set and how they had been split up before the Plague Doctor had chased her down into the bowels of the old building, and through the labyrinth of Salazar's tunnels. Nox wasn't sure how she was going to explain to anyone about Merlin and his dog, or the horrible room he had showed her, but Luna merely nodded sympathetically, taking in each word she said and storing it away behind her round, moon-like eyes.

Aidan's blood was still on her boots, she realised, and Nox had no doubt what had happened to the other people who had disappeared within the Angel. It all made sense now: the wet red cross she and Percy had encountered at the bank's main entrance, identical to the cross that officials had once painted on infected houses during the old Plague Year. The vengeful of the woman she had seen yesterday committing suicide from the fifth floor of the hotel was very likely one of the poor tenants whom the Plague Doctor had experimented on. Death had been her only escape. Now her spirit, like many others, was tied to the Plague Doctor.

Nox set her jaw in a grim line and tried to quell the nauseous feeling building in her stomach. Anger swelled inside her like a boil and threatened to erupt into panic that would expand into every nerve, every cell. This building was haunted to the core by bad blood and steeped in the spirit of the Black Death. How on earth could she defeat something that was torment and suffering itself, bound in the image and memory of a Plague Doctor?

She needed Fred and George. Wild and unpredictable, yes; impossible, _definitely_, but always eternally, unfailing, solidly dependable. And this was too much, way too much for her brain to unscramble alone.

"I wish you hadn't come here, Luna," she said. "It's too dangerous."

"Oh, it's not too awful. At least you know it is a Vengeful," said Luna serenely. "There are lots of them around in all shapes and forms, though very few people can see them. There was a famous case of one in Highgate Cemetery once. They exist as a physical extension of an evil intention like most Dark Creatures do. There is a theory that if you call out its True Name you can control it."

Nox fought back a moan. "So I've heard."

"Of course," Luna continued in a faraway tone, twirling a strand of hair around the tip of her wand, "if you give it any ordinary name it will act much the same way a Boggart does if it's named."

"Which is?"

"It becomes uncontrollable and devours everything in sight," she replied simply.

Nox deflated like a bagpipe. "I was worried you'd say that."

She led them along the first floor corridor where the majority of the bank's business offices were situated, gingerly peering through doorways. She had expected to find clerks or some sign that business was still running as per usual, but the first-floor was utterly abandoned. Perhaps Angus Postlethwaite had decided to close for the afternoon, though judging by his character, Nox did not think this scenario was likely.

A ghostly wind came whooshing down the corridors, banging doors against walls and whipping up anything that wasn't attached to the floor. Roots were slowly snaking out of the ceiling, winding and pushing their way through brick and plaster and an acrid tang like sour vinegar filled their nostrils. The floorboards beneath their feet began to tremble violently. Nox tried to ignore her shaking knees as they picked up their pace in order to keep their balance. There was no more filtered brown daylight seeping in through the grimy windows and when the power suddenly cut, causing the electric lights overhead to fizzle out, they found themselves stumbling uneasily across a moving floor.

Nox was almost glad they were in darkness, because she was sure she could hear the scratchy letters writing themselves along the walls beside them and in the gaps between the floorboards below, half embedded in soil, she glimpsed the half rotten bodies of rats.

Nox gripped Luna's hand tightly. "We're going to get out of this," she told her stubbornly, as much to comfort herself as Luna.

"Okay."

Nox faltered in the dark. "You don't have to be so trusting."

"It's much easier to simply believe than to sit around all day with your head in a cauldron wondering whether or not you should," Luna said brightly. "It saves much more time too, don't you think? But I should tell you that there are no more ways left in or out of this building. I tried Apparating inside, but the Angel seems to have shut itself all up like a clam."

"You – _what?_" Nox spluttered, her voice halting. "But you got in."

"Hmm. Yes. I suppose I did," she replied, as though this thought had only just occurred to her. "There's always a door. Viktor used to say that. I see things nobody else bothers to look for." Her penetrating gaze settled on Nox. "You do, too. You see things that nobody else wants to see."

Nox gave a tight little laugh. "Whether I like it or not."

"I suppose people must think you're a bit odd, too."

There was a sad note in Luna's voice that caught Nox off guard. "You're not odd, Luna. You're different. And thank blazes for that," she said and gave a shrug that indicated that, although she was fairly fond of Fred, prankery and undeadlieness aside, she wasn't quite ready to join him in pushing up daisies. "Besides," she added, "the universe would be a very boring place without you prodding it all the time." She turned to look at the young witch with a reassuring smile, but was surprised to find Luna was looking directly at her with an expression that was as close to accusing Nox had ever seen her wear.

"You know," Luna began serenely, "Harry never let us help him either. He was too afraid that we would, how did Ron put it? 'Snuff it', I think. He carried the weight of everyone's troubles on his shoulders because he believed they were his troubles alone."

Nox bent her head in thought. She remembered Harry from the Weasleys' Christmas party, how his bright green eyes watched her and did not watch her at once. "Harry was the one who killed Voldemort, wasn't he?" she murmured.

Luna nodded. "Harry didn't understand that everyone is a hero in their own story. Voldemort was everyone's enemy," she continued, observing Nox with those oddly misty protuberant eyes. "The battle was as much ours as it was his. It might be brave being heroic, but no one can fight a battle alone." She paused, and Nox felt the grip on her hand tighten. "I know that you worry that I might be hurt, but it's a bit like being treated as though you have your head in a sack."

"Luna, we don't mean it like that-"

"And if you have made your minds up, then I have too," she prattled on conversationally, "and I really don't see how you can stop me. I can help."

Nox's eyes met Luna's. For all her dreaminess and peculiarities, Luna was stubborn and loyal to a fault, and Nox had long since suspected her of knowing much more about Fred's curse than she let on. The twins knew as well as Nox did that they could use Luna's expertise, but at what cost?

"You shouldn't be afraid of death." Luna was smiling slightly. "After all, even when we separate it's not like we'll never be together again, is it? We find our way back to each other eventually." She paused thoughtfully, tapping her wand against her chin. "That's what the dead want, too, I think. All the voices of spirits in this building. They might sound a little scary, but I think what they're really asking for is help."

Nox did not know what to say. Luna believed so many things on faith alone. She did not need proof or evidence that extraordinary things existed, she simply believed and her words lessened the dead weight curling in Nox's stomach. Then an idea struck her suddenly.

"A clue…"

"Pardon?"

"The song. The song! It's a clue! You're right!" Nox cried. "Luna, you're a genius!"

"Thank you." She beamed. "Is that something native to Scotland?"

**oOo**

Percy traipsed back into the boardroom where the remaining group was huddled together in a corner, save for Israel Darkwood, the ghost hunter from Soulseekers Paranormal Investigations, who was sitting primly at his laptop, his expression stoical.

The elderly psychic, Miss Whittle, looked up at him hopefully, her lined face drawn with anguish. Percy swallowed thickly, then shook his head. He had to turn away as the woman crumpled in her seat, sobs trembling through her.

Percy had chased after Ariadne, of course, but by the time he had found her, he knew it was too late. At first he had thought she was alive, her Vengeful looked frighteningly lifelike. But then she had turned and looked at him with empty, impossibly sad eyes. Long beaded necklaces and Wicca charms clinked and chimed around her neck, and her long beringed fingers fluttered gently, like the wings of a tired butterfly. She twisted bonelessly towards him, pearly white and fluid as smoke, and then lunged across the floor, her jaws gaping horribly wide. Percy had had no choice but to run. Even though he knew it was the only thing he could do, he felt wretched and sick with himself. If only he hadn't tripped. If only he'd gotten to her before the Angel did.

If only…

He sat down heavily at the board table beside a trembling Postlethwaite, who was tearing at the corners of his handkerchief with his teeth and repetitively muttering something about calling the Police.

"I suppose you've tried Apparating out of here," said Israel Darkwood matter-of-factly.

"No. How can I leave everyone here defenceless?" Percy pulled his horn-rimmed glasses off his face and rubbed his tired eyes wearily, then turned around sharply. "Hold on. How do you know-?"

"I'm surprised Kingsley allows one so obviously lacking in wits in his department. Work ethic is evidently on the decrease. They'll let anyone into the Ministry these days." Israel Darkwood slid his hand inside the sleeve of his left arm and produced a wand of polished ebony.

Percy turned red in the face. "Ghost hunting Muggle institution indeed."

"Oh, that was no lie," said Darkwood. "The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures likes to keep its eye on the curious, more imaginative Muggles who nose around in affairs they need not be nosing."

"Like the Angel Hotel?" Percy prompted.

Israel gave him a hard stare. "That is my own business." He closed his laptop and clasped his hands on the table. "The creature haunting this building is my own responsibility. My grandfather sealed it long ago. It was strong back then, but from my investigations over the passed few weeks-"

"Few weeks?!" Percy spluttered, jumping to his feet. Beside him, Postlethwaite jumped out of his trance and glanced around nervously. "Do you mean to tell me the Ministry knew about this all along? Why didn't it do something the moment people began disappearing?!"

"The Ministry has been busy," said Darkwood tightly, "as you should well know, Mr Weasley. In addition to clearing up after the Last War, there have been several unexpected incidents. This is not the only disturbance of this magnitude. Our services are spread thin."

"Services!" Percy snorted. "What services would those be? You know a great deal more about this case than you pretend to. If it weren't for your secrecy, lives could have been saved!"

"I had heard you were one for following rules." Darkwood's cold gaze met his. "Apparently I was mistaken. But I will humour you nonetheless. There's no longer any reason not to."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mr Weasley, that Apparating in and out of this building is now impossible. The _taran_ that your co-worker, Detective Wolfe, rightly guessed at – the very same that stopped your dead brother from entering this building earlier – has prevented it. Like a mussel, a _taran_ works as a defence mechanism against spirits and the Dark Arts, closing up entirely, meaning that no one can get in and no one can get out."

Percy grit his teeth. "And the cause?"

"A Vengeful," Darkwood replied.

"A _Vengeful_?" Percy cried incredulously. "What kind of Vengeful is strong enough to do all this?!"

"P-Perhaps you could conduct a séance?" piped in Postlethwaite, nervously. He had not understood a word the two men had been saying, but they seemed to know something about what was going on and frankly that was good enough for him. "M-Miss Whittle, you could start us off."

Darkwood raised one thick black eyebrow at the smaller man, a faint sneer tugging at his mouth. "I'm afraid I don't place much faith in the arts of Divination."

Percy frowned. "I was under the impression you were in agreement with Nox earlier."

Darkwood gave him a sideways glance that made Percy bristle. "Indeed I did. Highland Second Sight is set apart from ordinary divination, the main difference being that Second Sight cannot be harnessed with incense or tea leaves, or other such rubbish. It's completely involuntary."

"I'm about to do something completely involuntary myself," the bank manager mumbled, trembling and dabbing his bald head with a sodden handkerchief.

"Shh!" Percy hissed. He tilted his head to the side, listening intently while Postlethwaite made a small groan of despair beside him.

_Be Bold, Be Bold  
__But not to Bold  
You can run for your life  
But the gates will hold_

whispered a hundred or more voices throughout the building. A smell of sour wine and rotting vegetation filled their nostrils. Dark shapes slipped through the shadows at the edges of things; things that might have been animals, or rats, like those that once carried the plague. These shadows grew until they reached the high ceiling of the room, shadows full of forms, hands that came groping over the table and under the door, figures that swarmed in the windows. Only Postlethwaite screamed, panic-stricken in his chair.

In one fluid motion, Percy and Israel Darkwood unsheathed their wands, casting protection spell after spell to ward off the growing numbers of shadowy wraiths pouring through the gap beneath the door and the cracks in the ceiling. Percy felt the sides of his face become numb and tingle, a sensation that began to ache painfully. Frost was spreading quickly across the floor, crackling underneath their feet and nails and creeping over Miss Whittle, who was sitting in her chair with her face in her hands. Percy tried to call out to her, but his lips were swollen with the cold, the icy room so suddenly intense that even if he were able to cast a spell, it would freeze in the air before it could have any effect. Before darkness froze in his mind, Percy thought he could make out two distinct figures in the corner of the room: one bent and crooked, like an enormous black crow with a sickle-shaped beak; the other tall and cold, and blazing white. Like a Queen.

**oOo**

The door to the boardroom was completely frozen with ice. Nox spun sharply towards the witch at her side, who nodded and raised her wand towards the door.

"_Liquefacere!"_

To their shock, nothing happened. The ice crackled and cackled smugly, blocking their entrance.

"Try something else," Nox pressed earnestly.

"_Incendio!" _

Flames burst out flying from the tip of Luna's wand. The ice covering the door hissed like a snake at the impact of the hot flames, and Luna and Nox burst through into the room, gasping at the sudden biting cold. A strange, grey mist was streaming through the high windows of the boardroom. Their eyes finally found Percy standing beside Israel Darkwood, shivering and near solid from the bitter cold. Crystals of ice covered their clothes and eyelashes. Luna ran to tend to them. Even their wands, still sparking expectantly, were sparkling with frost. Nox followed the direction they were pointing and stiffened.

It was funny, she thought. The Plague Doctor did not look anything at all like a human now. She wondered how she could ever have mistaken it for anything remotely human-shaped. Neither did it look as menacing as before. It stood in a corner at the end of the room, dejected, like an old jacket flung over a coat rack. Something from inside the sleeves and pockets of the shapeless black thing rustled, like dead leaves skittering across ice. Around her, the dead whispery voices repeated their rhyme.

She took a step towards the Plague Doctor. It jerked its bird like head upwards, as if suddenly detecting her presence. There was something different about it. It seemed tired, weakened by the shard's inexhaustible hunger.

"Here…Come here…" it said in a slow, scratchy voice. "I have a song for you…" Nox imagined it was the sort of voice an old crow might have, if it could talk.

She took another careful step towards it, then asked, "Do you know your True Name?"

From the shadows, the Plague Doctor whispered, "Names, names, names, all faraway and lost. Zig, zag, zig. Oh what a beautiful night for the poor world. Long live death and equality!" The creature laughed; a wheezing sound like the wind whistling through trees. Feathers dripped from its black mantle.

"But you do know your True Name," she told it. "That's your regret. It's in the song – _your_ song. Listen to it."

The Plague Doctor stood to its full height then, drawing in the shadowy figures that filled the windows and lurked in the corners, which writhed in their efforts to escape. Nox took a tentative step back. There was a tense pause as the Plague Doctor hung over her like a shroud, then, with a whimper of dismay, it sunk back into itself again, turning, bewildered, from side to side like an animal. Merlin had been right. Nox did pity it. It wasn't a monster, but a beast starving and inexorably pushed onwards by something it had no control over.

She took another step towards it, ignoring Percy's small squeak of despair behind her.

"You're hungry. I know that hunger," she said, trying to ignore the Vengeful's blank black eyes watching her from beneath its wide-rimmed hat. "I knew it for years. The emptiness, dreaming of nothing, chasing shadows. Death leaves you empty. It leaves you with a hole that you're driven to fill."

Another step. The Plague Doctor jerked its beak, now more crow-like than ever.

"Be careful! Don't touch it," Percy murmured, still feeling much more frozen than he would have liked.

"You can end all of it, all that hunger and yearning. It will go away," said Nox quietly . "All you need to do is say your name."

She reached out her hand towards the creature's breastbone, her fingers inches from the greasy leather coat. It moved, as if it were taking a shuddering breath. Nox snatched her hand away from it. A mouth opened in its mouthless face, dark, tacky stuff sticking to its teeth, which didn't quite seem to fit in its crow-like head. Hunger drove it; aching hunger, and a voice as clear and hard as winter. The voice was insistent, relentless as the snow.

"Names, names," it sighed, "all far away and lost…" It staggered, then looked around at the silent, anxious watchers, as if waking from a long sleep and shaking free from a persistent, nagging spell. It took another lumbering step towards Nox, stooping over her, and recited in its dead whispery voice, "_King Charles has bolted all the gates and fled his halls for better stakes._" Then it crumpled to the floor, the black coat writhing and flopping madly as a score of rats escaped its folds, chittering and bounding over each other into the shadows at the corners of the room.

Nox knelt by the greasy leather coat and pulled it open. All that was left was a sliver of glass that burned like a star in the murky room. She laid her hand on the coat, petting it gently.

"Poor thing."

**oOo**

They stood together on the snowy garden path of Weasley Manor, watching the flash of red and blue lights against the Angel Hotel's face. There was little noise, despite the confusion of police cars and ambulances, journalists and curious spectators milling around the Angel Hotel. The falling snow had an eerie way of quieting the world, even when the world was chaos. The building was a sorry sight now.

The ghost of Fred Weasley sprang up like a jack-in-the box behind her, a mischievous, self-satisfied smirk on his silver face.

"King Charles, eh? Funny name for a Vengeful."

"Hmm," she nodded her head. "But it makes sense if you think about it. King Charles fled the city during the Plague Year of 1665, leaving the sick and poor locked inside the city. The desperation and fear of that year and the betrayal felt by those who were left with no escape… Well, it makes sense for the Plague Doctor, who betrayed the tenants of the Angel, to have a name that sums the Black Death up."

Nox dug the heels of her brown leather boots deep into the ground. She suddenly wanted to be as close to Weasley Manor as possible. It was funny, Nox mused; she had never expected to feel safe in Weasley Manor, but now, as she watched the ghostly lights of the police cars through the snow, she felt warm and protected standing under its twisted gables, snake like motifs and grinning gargoyles.

"George thought you'd all popped your clogs in there," Fred chuckled.

"And you didn't?"

Fred pocketed his hands and rocked back onto heels, floating inches above the ground. "We might not have a lot in common, me being popular, heroic, charming–"

"–dead as a doornail."

"-and still a heck of a lot more attractive," he remarked dryly, "but we've got one thing in common." He beamed at her. "The word impossible isn't in our vocabulary. Not when it gets right down to it."

He turned to watch George, who was leaning against the icy garden wall watching the scene unfolding in front of the Angel Hotel. Along the street, Luna was talking with a frantic, but obviously relieved Rolf Scamander.

"I reckon George is forgetting that," said Fred quietly. Snow fell soundlessly through his body.

"George…" Nox shivered. Merlin's words of warning still ran in her ears. She had to find him, had to talk to him.

"Where are you going?" asked Fred, as she took off down the garden path at a brisk pace.

"I have to find someone," she called back, skidding through the gate and turning onto Pentonville Road. Nox didn't really know where she was going, but something told her that she would find him if she was looking. And sure enough, after a few minutes of trudging up the street through the blinding snow, something soft brushed her leg.

The black and white collie licked her hand tentatively. She stopped and patted its thick, damp coat, flecks of snow showing bright against the patches of black fur.

"Good girl," she said. "Now where's that spindly cockroach lurking?"

"Aren't you a wee bundle of joy?" grunted a voice from above her head. "Real 'pint is half empty' girl, aren't you?"

"The glass is always half empty," she scorned. "And cracked. And I just cut my lip on it. And chipped a tooth. What are you doing up there?"

"Watching the events, of course. Very good! Very good!" the tramp cackled. He was sitting on the top of a lamppost, clapping his grimy hands together enthusiastically. "Very good indeed! Why I thought for sure that Vengeful would have your head. Genius. Exceptionally clever. Almost as remarkable a feat as I could have pulled off."

"You're joking."

"Of course I am. You could never be quite as remarkable as I." He peered at her through curtains of greasy hair. "Only two more shards to go now. She is very close," he said seriously. "Avoid the cracks and shadows from now on. Don't look under the bed at night or at the street in witching hour. And mind you mind the Gap." He paused, as if waiting for something. "I told a joke. Does my joke not deserve laughter?"

"My sides are positively splitting," she replied flatly.

"If sarcasm was a sting it would pierce my skin and bones."

Tell me something." Nox stepped forward. "You said earlier that George will try to reverse death." She paused, trying to assemble her thoughts. She thought of the hole death and grief had left in the Plague Doctor, in George, in Luna, even in herself. She had seen firsthand what that grief could do to someone. "Is it such a bad thing? Bringing somebody back to life, I mean," she said quietly. "After all, if you are who you say you are, aren't you breaking some precious rule by being, well…_being_."

"It is the most amazing talent we have as humans," said Merlin idly, grasping a fleck of snow between a grimy thumb and forefinger, "believing in things that aren't true. That is a special kind of magic. One that most Muggles have lost." He fixed a very sober gaze on her, his yellow wolfish eyes gleaming like two hot coals in their sockets. "That is the underlying bitterness which fuels the Slytherins' hatred. Nobody likes to be forgotten. Not even Her. _Especially_ not Her. Winter is very proud." He stood then, perching perfectly on top of the lamppost with the balance of a great cat. "All things must die eventually, even Death. Otherwise, what's the point?"

Merlin crouched and leapt from the lamppost, his rags fluttering in the drifting snow, landing with a crunch in the snow without the slightest waver.

"There is no such thing as a thing forgotten. Magic remembers. Blood remembers. Trees never forget and the earth is the library of all forgotten treasures." He grinned to himself like a hungry wolf sighting a lost lamb. "Be careful, little fish, little knight. Yours is the kind of curiosity that kills cats."

He knelt down towards an icy manhole cover and, placing a hand over its surface, the metal cover began to crisp and burn away like crate paper leaving an open black hole in the pavement. Before he leapt inside, he turned to Nox with his tombstone smile.

"Look for me under the apple tree when all is lost, little knight. And I will guide you like I did the Great Stones."

The black and white collie gave her one last lick, then padded obediently after her master, leaving not a single footprint behind her. And then there was only the snow. After a while, it began to harden to ice.

**oOo**

**

* * *

  
**

**A/N:** Good grief, have I actually finished that casebook? It's a Christmas miracle! Thank you to everyone who has stuck by this story through thick and thin. It's been a very difficult few months for me personally and I cannot apologise enough for the lack of updates. Hope you forgive me! Have a wonderful Christmas Eve and a magical Christmas Day!

**MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!**


	27. The Un Door

**A/N:** …Hi! (ducks rotten fruit) Ok, ok – OY! That was a pineapple! Ok, well, apologies for not updating in six months may seem a bit shallow, but believe me I am so sorry and have been writing every chance I get. I've had my reasons of course and those of you who keep up with my journal on Deviantart know why. In short, due to health and personal problems, I fell behind with everything, including my university work. So, sad to say it's not only TVPD that's suffered. It's been a tough old year, but believe me I read every single one of your reviews and try to read and review your stories in return. Your comments and enthusiasm for the story – gosh, it just means so much to me and it has been everyone's love for the story that has given me the energy and drive to write again after a year of hell, haha!

So, many, many, many thank yous again! Please do check out new Twin Vice gift-art by Karete, Peregrinus5Floh, SilentKnight4, zaz14ispottermad, annaparma and LilAngelMamimi. And if you haven't seen my TVPD commission by Olafpriol, get to it!

My co-writer, Caith, helped me out immensely with this chapter and even wrote a few passages (such as Harry's speech and a few bits regarding her enigmatic character, Caithion). I would just like to thank her from the bottom of my heart for all the help and to congratulate her once again on successfully kicking ARSE in her creative writing degree.

* * *

'_But there is a cure in the house__  
and not outside it, no,__  
Not from others but from them.  
Their bloody strife. We sing to you,  
Dark gods beneath the earth.'_

- Aeschylus, _The Libation Bearers_

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

The Un-Door

The old city was rising. Jack Frost watched it from his high perch on Victoria Station, writhing up from below like worms out of freshly turned soil, while Muggles walked the streets oblivious. Puddles of blackish water were thickening to ice on the pavements, but it had not snowed for a week now. Nevertheless, it was mid-March and still there was bitterness in the air; a haunting sense of imminent cessation of time, as if the whole city was trapped in the dead of winter and someone had forgotten to wake spring up. The sun was of course staying around longer each day, but somehow the days weren't any brighter and it still felt like mid-winter, as if the world was frozen in Winter Solstice.

With a faint sneer, Jack Frost leapt from his perch, leaping and bounding across the rooftops and spires of London until he was sitting on the Leaky Cauldron's chimney overlooking Diagon Alley and the narrow adjoining lane. Looking down on Knockturn Alley was like lifting a slab and finding beetles crawling over each other. Shadowy characters and creatures scuttled to and fro along the narrow streets, never lingering too long in the one place, their collars turned up.

There was a ripple in the air as the elf leapt from his station, landing spider-like in the deep shadow cast by Borgin and Burkes. The labyrinth of passageways surrounding him were narrow and choked with bloody history, for Knockturn Alley was much older than its neighbouring street and its stories more grim. There was a gap between Borgin and Burkes and an old cottage; a narrow strip of black between the buildings that would not have attracted even the keenest eyes, not unless they were looking for it. But Jack Frost was.

A smell came from the narrow gap between the buildings, of must and dust and abandonment. Jack slithered through the gap bonelessly, edging along until the space opened up into a small, round courtyard. At the far end of the courtyard was a building hewn from rough ancient bricks and rounded at the top, like a broch. The large gaps between the bricks were choked with weeds. It did not look man-made, but rather like a great dead thing growing out of the earth; a stone tree stump that didn't quite belong to man or nature. Inside, there were voices.

Jack crept closer, pressing his pointed face to a large gap in the structure's wall.

"It has been months – _months_ – and you have not made good on a single promise, halfing. We are no closer to getting inside that house, Cissy still breathes and the White Witch draws closer each day-"

"Patience, Bella."

"Yeah, put a bleeding cork in it."

The ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange twisted like a snake, her hand lashing wildly through the air towards Fenrir Greyback's face. The hulking man flinched, then opened an eye, seemingly calculating the damage done to him and laughed cruelly when he saw there was none.

"Just a harmless spectre after all," he grunted, baring rows of pointed teeth. "You ain't even a rotten bag of bones."

Bellatrix glared and tossed her silver head back towards the goblin, Red Cap. "The teeth you've planted outside Slytherin's house have done nothing. The barrier is barely weakened! What use are the shards to us if those stupid blood traitors don't know how to use them? They don't even know what that house holds!"

"If you are so worried, Bella, perhaps you should go in there yourself," Red Cap replied silkily. "After all, it worked so well the last time."

"You know I cannot do that. Not unless George Weasley meets the same fate as his worm ridden twin," Bellatrix hissed.

The goblin nodded with a soft smile. "Ah yes. His magic has proved more formidable at keeping you out of that house than I had previously expected. But never mind. The teeth will do their work. The barrier is weakening and not only that." He bent his head in a small, evil seeming smile. "The old earth is rising."

"The city smells like a graveyard," grunted Greyback in agreement.

"That's because it is," said Red Cap. "A graveyard of hidden history and nasty secrets. The closer Gudrun gets, the nearer the city's darkness worms to the surface." The goblin looked Greyback dead in the eye. "Remember what I told you about Apparating."

"Hmph. Yeah. _Don't do it_." The werewolf drummed his pointed fingers against the arm of the beaten old couch he was lounging on. "Still don't see why not."

"If you want to disappear for good, by all means go ahead. It would be no tragedy," Bellatrix drawled, gazing down at him through haughty, sunken eyes.

Greyback bared his teeth again, growling in the pit of his stomach. "If you were alive I'd tear you to shreds, woman."

Bellatrix was not impressed. "If I could use a wand I'd skin your pelt and use it as a throw, you filthy little werewolf!"

Greyback let out a nasty bark of laughter. "Too bad for you both you and your wand are buried for good."

"That," said Jack Frost, seizing his moment and stepping nimbly into the room, "is not necessarily true."

The ghost, the werewolf and the goblin turned to look at him with equal expressions of alarm and simmering rage at their hiding place having been discovered. Red Cap's small golden eyes looked the winter elf up and down appraisingly.

"I thought you'd turn up sooner or later," the Goblin said at length. "What do you want?"

Jack smiled. "Simply to offer you a proposition."

**oOo**

The Entrees des Catacombes in Paris was an unassuming building, small and square, the dark blue paint chipping at its corners. Draco shivered at the instant chill as he stepped inside and began to make his way through the tightly packed tunnels as he had done so many times over the past fortnight. The Parisian catacombs had been constructed hundreds of years ago due to major overcrowding in the cemeteries in the city above. Six million corpses were dug up and transported into the underground tunnels which snaked below the city surface. The only purpose they served Muggles these days was as a slightly macabre tourist operation, but the network of tunnels remained an ancient meeting point for the Confederation of Wizards.

Draco quirked his lips in a sneer when he caught sight of the first human bones embedded in the walls. A few more steps and there would be the skulls; thousands of them, all packed and rotting together, anonymous and grinning from death. It was difficult, almost impossible to imagine that each had once belonged to a living, breathing person. Death was a strange thing in the catacombs; a cruel sort of art.

A few curious skulls turned their splintered heads and watched with curiosity as Draco escorted the grim little party of wizards deeper into the underground. The air was cold and musty down here. Draco pulled the thick material of his brand new cloak over his shoulders, taking pleasure in how the expensive material felt between his fingers. He allowed himself a smug smile. _Malfoy_ was no longer a dirty name. He, Draco, had single-handedly picked his family out of the mud in a fortnight with no help from his father or mother. As he followed his group into an enormous chamber, brilliantly lit with candles, Draco was confronted with hundreds of esteemed representatives of the International Confederation of Wizards sitting in a semi-circle around a raised dais, and he secretly promised himself he would never wear that cheap thin cloak again.

The past two weeks since his meeting with Harry Potter had been eventful to say the least, though it irked Draco that he was still no closer to understanding a thing about what was going on. His job had merely been to escort and protect the German, Bulgarian and Russian representatives from their respective countries to the meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards in Paris. Potter had given him only two orders: do not breathe a word of his business and do not, under any circumstances, Apparate.

Draco had bitterly resented taking orders from Harry Potter, but he quickly reminded himself that he had other objectives. Swallowing his pride in front of his old rival was a small price to pay in order to secure the Malfoy's great reputation again. Besides, he thought smugly, Potter hadn't been best pleased about the arrangement either. It had been Kingsley Shacklebolt who had personally asked for him, not Potter, and Draco knew this was the real reason why he had accepted the job.

In addition to his good fortune, Draco's partner in business had been none other than the beautiful witch, Astoria Greengrass. She was sitting with the Bulgarian representative on the other side of the chamber. Draco caught her dark eye across the room, but the young witch turned her pointed nose away from him. He felt his face flush hotly and turned to glower at Harry who was sitting beside Kingsley Shacklebolt at the front of the seated semi-circle.

A sudden hush fell over the chamber as the candles dimmed. The chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards, Fahim Jaha, was teetering up the steps of the main podium. He tapped his wand against his throat, casting a Sonorous Charm. The meeting began.

The next four hours were utter gibberish as far as Draco was concerned. A translation charm had been cast over the crypt in order that everyone, regardless of their language, could understand one another. There was a lot of arguing over the history of the Hogwarts Founders, with several well-known historians and scholars coming to the podium to recite whole rolls of ancient runes. At one point during the meeting while Draco was struggling to keep himself from falling asleep, he thought he heard someone mention the Holy Grail and Helga Hufflepuff's cup. Finally, a vote was held to put a ban on Apparition for the foreseeable future. To Draco's surprise, the result was mostly in favour.

Halfway through the meeting, a spindly middle-aged wizard of barely identifiable gender, who appeared to be an associate of the representative of Russia, jumped to his feet.

"It is preposterous that we are arguing over such things. Surely this should be a time for celebration!" he cried. "Knowledge of ancient magic and the Fey have been lost to us for centuries, even before Hogwarts first age. Think what we could learn! Why should we protect Muggles when they give no care to us?"

There were a few cheers and approving grunts in favour of the Russian wizard's speech, then Harry got to his feet.

Draco blinked back his surprise. He barely recognised the wizard now. Harry's face was ghostly pale and slick with sweat. The audience he faced, however, did not seem to notice his condition and gazed at him reverently. Draco rolled his eyes.

"A long time ago," Harry began evenly and clearly, "a young Muggle named Tom Riddle discovered he was a wizard." He let his eyes move from face to face. A deathly hush fell over the crypt. Voldemort's true name still held power long after his death. Harry continued solemnly, "The havoc he caused, the pain and the fear he inflicted, was not limited to the Wizarding community. Likewise, the legendary Founders' Wars against Gudrun and The Host shook the entire world to its' roots." He looked down. "We are wizards. Gifted in magic. But we are just as human, just as mortal, as the people we call Muggles. We have a responsibility to them – a responsibility that we have, until now, upheld – to preserve their world, as their ignorance preserves ours." His voice became more heated as he took another rattled breath. "If Alastor Moody were here right now, he would say that we needed _constant vigilance_. I cannot agree more. The events that have been put into motion cannot be stopped, but we can take measures to protect ourselves and those around us. We cannot make the same mistakes we have in the past, mistakes which cost the lives of so many dear to us-"

Harry stopped abruptly. With a frown, Draco followed his gaze over the heads of the audience and saw that it was fixed on something in the dark corners of the chamber, where the candlelight did not reach. Around him the chamber seemed to darken. Then, Draco saw a figure flicker into existence.

It was wrapped in a tattered grey cloak and wore a mummer's mask in the shape of stag, the shadows of its horns like splayed hands against the high chamber walls. Fear gripped him – he had never seen anything stand so still. Its presence filled the room, ancient and foreboding; neither good nor evil. A bubble of air choked in Draco's throat and he gasped. The figure disappeared and the room became brighter. Harry was talking again, continuing his speech and warning of the dangers of Apparition as if nothing had transpired and the shadow thing in the mummers mask had never been.

Draco was panting; the palms of his hands were slick with sweat. Astoria was mouthing at him questioningly across the room, a look of concern and frustration marring her pretty face, but he could not look her in the eye. He glanced uneasily at the back of the chamber. A tall, spidery wizard in black was leaning against the wall of skulls now, a lit cigarette at his lips. An Auror or perhaps a guard, Draco assumed. His eyes scoured the rest of the room. There was no sign of the stag-headed figure, but Draco had an uneasy feeling that even though he could not see it, it was still there.

**oOo**

There was a body on the road. She remembered that much. Its stillness and size disturbed her most. The red ball went skittering across the street until it came to a sudden halt in the muddy waters of the gutter on the other side. It had happened in the blink of an eye, but when Nox dreamed of the incident on Portobello Road it was the little details she remembered: the blue wellington boots with the yellow soles, the number and destination of the bus that had come screeching to a halt too late, the beggar on the street corner who did not stop playing his tin whistle, not even to look up; his black and white collie sitting on its haunches, watching the scene through old brown eyes.

"_Good god._ Arthur, your cloak!"

More than the body on the road or the sight of its arms lying at strange angles across the wet cement, it was the serious tone of her father's voice that terrified her. Edward never used that tone. Edward was never serious.

Nox understood what death was that day, the sudden, irrational, completeness of it. It was not a memory she treasured in the least. Why had Nam forced her to relive it? Nox's cynical side answered that that was simply to be expected of an insane Faerie witch who lived in a chicken house, stole peoples' skins and kept her original skull on her desk chewing gum all day. Nevertheless, as she drifted out of her sleep, Nam's proclamation lingered in her mind.

'…_An outside force is obscuring this memory. You have only seen half of it.'_

Nox stretched in the tall leather-backed armchair and wiped the sleep from her eyes. She had not been napping long. Sleep did not come easily these days and when it did, it came in short bursts full of dreams flickering in and out of sight. She hated to admit it, but she knew in her bones that Nam had told the truth. Something had happened on Portobello Road, something important, but every time she tried to remember what, the memory slipped from her grasp like a slippery eel.

Putting aside the troubling dream, she turned her attention to the mountain of books on her desk.

It was difficult to read by candlelight. Her eyes were dry and stinging, but Nox had found that some books, particularly those ones that her father had picked up in the wizarding world, refused to be read under electrical lighting. Even books published in her world, the Muggle world, revealed secrets in the flickering shadows given off by candlelight. The books cluttered her workspace; a nightmarish number of them, some leather-bound, some hinged, others tatty and fanged, and gnawing on her boot affectionately.

It was the wee hours of the morning. Across the office of the Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives, George Weasley and his un-dead twin, Fred, were snoring blissfully at their desks, an open book lying spread-eagled on George's freckled face. Caithion, the paranormal detective agency's grim and spider-like secretary, had left hours ago. He never stayed passed Five O'Clock if it could be helped. Nox did not know what he did or who he went to see after work. She had asked him once, to which he had replied, "I am meeting an acquaintance."

Nox had looked at Caithion with genuine surprise. "You have friends?"

The tall Irishman stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking calmly back into her face. Then, after a moment, his lips curved around the cigarette that parted them into something like a smile.

"Occasionally."

Something in his gently mocking tone unnerved her and Nox had never questioned him on his personal life again.

Carefully, quietly, Nox reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out the book she had taken from Ditchwater Nam's house. She had not told the twins about it, though she wasn't quite sure why. The book held a strange fascination over her and seemed to hum with energy. Occasionally, when she wasn't paying attention, she could hear whisperings coming from inside it, but try as she might she could not open it.

Shaking her head, Nox put the book down on her desk and turned her attention to another.

"'Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the _essence_ of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind'," she read quietly, then sighed in frustration. "That much I already figured."

She closed Adalbert Waffling's _Magical Theory_ and dropped it onto the floor where it landed with a dusty _thump_. Her hand fumbled tiredly for the next book on the pile beside her. This one was small and blue with a simple crescent moon adorning its spine. Beneath it, the title read: _The Wolves that Run_,_ A Study of the Lupe, Magical and Otherwise_, by Úlfr Theodulf. She flipped the pages to an article bordered by a twining pack of running wolves with blood dripping from their fangs.

_**Les Loups de Paris:**__ 'the Wolves of Paris' were a  
pack of man-eating wolves which terrorised Paris__  
during the winter of 1450. Throughout that one  
long winter, forty-two men, women and children were slain…_

"Forty-two…" Her stomach clenched painfully as she thought of the forty-two lives taken by the wolf pack that had entered Blackwater Hall on New Year's night. "Can't be-"

"Oh yes, young lady," said a grave voice above her. "Your own experience is no coincidence. Indeed, the Wolves of Paris were my fault. And my undoing."

Sir Hector Oddness was in his portrait, the fifth of which Nox knew hung on the walls in Weasley Manor. He was a slight man, wiry but sprite, with a long luxurious beard and a pair of eyes that burned in the dark like two diamonds.

"Is it true that you were Beedle the Bard?" she asked him, closing the book on her desk and turning around in her chair to face him.

"Er, yes," he replied, looking discomfited. "At least I was once. Before the wolves caught me and tore me limb from limb." He moaned. "I still remember how my flesh was torn from the bone, you know; the feel of their claws digging for my heart-"

"Um, that's enough if you don't mind thanks," Nox interrupted, feeling squeamish. Sir Hector was definitely a writer at heart and a schmaltzy one to boot, she thought. "Did the wolves come after you because you were searching for Gudrun?"

Sir Hector looked pained. "Actually, I really must dash-"

"No – Sir Hector – please," said Nox quickly, "I really have to talk to you. All I can find in these books are more and more pieces of the same puzzle that don't fit together, not without your help. Viktor told us that you found this house on your quest to find Gudrun. Is that why you died? Because you were searching for her?"

"I-I do apologise, but I really know nothing about the Snow Witch and I'm afraid I promised Dumbledore I'd join him for a spot of Exploding Snap in his portrait-" he murmured, edging out of his frame, but Nox was far more stubborn.

"I know that wolves are her enemy for creating werewolves," she interjected shortly, refusing to be deflected. "I know that she fought wars with the Founders and she searched for ways to extend her life. But I don't know her connection to Fred's curse and this house, other than her relation to Salazar Slytherin." Her eyes blazed in the candlelight. "Fred's all I care about in this. You know what will happen if the curse exorcises him. He'll go to Grigheim. Do you want that?" she asked accusingly.

Sir Hector flinched in his portrait, deflecting her gaze. Nox continued.

"I've read your stories. You talk about morals and brave deeds – of doing the right thing. If you really were Beedle the Bard, you _know_ you have to help me."

She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms expectantly, her eyes never leaving the portrait of Sir Hector.

"Very well," he said finally, looking resigned. "I rather expected you to ask sooner or later. But you must understand the reason I resist is not due to personal weakness or fear. Knowledge never helped your dear father, Merlin bless his soul."

Blood drained from Nox's face. "What d'you mean?"

"Edward was the previous owner of this house, of course. He expressed a keen interest in the histories I collected regarding the Founders and the Snow Witch. We had such good chats. Even played a few rounds of Snapdragon, though he was a dreadful blaggard of a cheat," said Sir Hector, looking wistfully around the room, before settling back on Nox, frowning. "You were unaware of this?"

Nox had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying something very sarcastic. Instead, she slipped her hand inside her trouser pocket, feeling for the heavy yet comforting weight of Edward's pocket watch. "Do you know what happened to him?" she asked softly.

Sir Hector Oddness hesitated, then said, "No one does."

"But he left me clues," she said distractedly. "On Scrum he paid the price for our bargain with Ditchwater Nam. Somehow he must have known we'd wind up there." Her eyes dimmed. "That old goat." Nox turned away from the portrait. "I need to know what you told him."

"I merely told him a story," replied Sir Hector gently. And as he spoke a book on her desk trembled to life, its pages fluttering wildly until they settled on one; blank save for a small symbol: a snake biting its tail, forming a perfect circle.

Nox breathed sharply, then spun towards Sir Hector's portrait. "I thought you couldn't leave your frame?"

Sir Hector smiled sadly. "My stories still answer to me and me alone. Take a look."

Nox did as told and thumbed through the section of the book headed under the Ouroboros symbol. The first story featured another familiar symbol: a vertical line and circle enclosed in a triangle.

"Of course," Sir Hector began, "the _Tale of the Three Peverell Brothers_ came first – three wizards who took from Death three artefacts: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone and the Invisibility Cloak. It has been theorised that they were in fact a branch, a berry and a leaf from the World Tree," he said solemnly. "The Peverell brothers were before even Merlin's time. Indeed, Merlin the Great was the first to write their story in the runes."

"I'll bet he was, nosey nutter," said Nox to herself, but with a small smile, and continued reading. "It's an allegory," she said after finishing the story, "for the pursuit of immortality."

"Yes…" Sir Hector smiled. "Or perhaps…"

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps not merely an allegory," he said darkly. "You see, the Deathly Hallows do exist."

True enough, Nox mused, that was to be expected. The World Tree existed after all. If the story claimed the Deathly Hallows came from the tree, why shouldn't they exist? Every year the Demon Parade, a collective mishmash of witches, warlocks and beasts marched for twelve days and nights until they found the great tree, which changed location every year. She hadn't thought much of the festival then, but now it seemed yet another piece of the puzzle. That said, however, she still found it impossible to swallow that Death itself had appeared to the three Peverell brothers. Even in the Wizarding world some things were just a little too implausible.

Nox turned the page. Another subheading, this time titled _The Snow Witch_, joined by a symbol she had readily expected: the serpent biting its own tail, forming a perfect circle. The symbol of the Snow Queen, Gudrun.

She read.

'_There are many tales of the Winter Queen, but only one of them is true.' _

'_It is true when they say her hair is white as snow, her eyes dark as coals; her face pale as Death. It is true that she is as old as the mountains; that she has as many names as the stars have, and how a cloak of white rabbits falls over her shoulder.'_

'_It is also true what they speak of her serpent mirror, Ouroboros, the never-ending silver chain. Mirrors never lie, but neither can they be trusted, for mirrors are the trickiest of all magical objects. There are children in Her mirror; those who strayed too far from the forest path and found the white haired Queen with her empty eyes sitting lonely beside that glass; those who stepped through the mirror chasing dreams and flickering lights, dancing all the way. And behind the glass they remain, their hearts and names, and souls stolen away in a jar for the Winter Queen and her mirror to consume. That is how she survives the tick-tick-ticking of the clock, for a child's soul is much stronger than a grown-up's.'_

'_Once, they say, she bore two children of her own: Sol and Salazar, one bright as the sun, the other pitch as night. They amused her for a time, but the winter mists drew close on that heart and she gave the sun to the night to carve up under a bloody moon.'_

'_So when you look in a mirror, dear ones, remember Salazar's betrayal of brave Sol and the poor ones forgotten behind the glass, belonging to none but the dark and the Winter Queen in her cloak of white rabbits. And when you go deep into the heart of the woods in winter, you will find what became of those children. Where their blood once soaked into the earth, tall above the grass they now stand; flowers with the faces of sleeping children.' _

'_For the woods feel the loss of a child.'_

'_But the Winter Queen does not.'_

At the bottom of the page was an illustration of a single rose, the petals forming the face of a sleeping child. Nox closed the book, unable to look at the page any longer, and releasing a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, said, "She murdered children."

"She did not want to die," replied Sir Hector. "By sacrificing them, she could retain the appearance of youth. Gudrun could not abide death. She saw it as weakness."

"She reminds me of the Blood Countess, Elizabeth Bathory."

"You know I interviewed her once!" Sir Hector said, cheerfully. "For a merry murderess she was really quite delightful."

"That's lovely," Nox muttered, drawing him a very sarcastic look, then leaned back into her chair and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. "But to order one son to murder the other…." Nox could not imagine a mother capable of such a thing. "How could she kill her own flesh and blood?"

"A wish is a dangerous, obsessive thing. The stronger the will of the person, the more powerful and reckless the wish becomes," said Sir Hector softly. "The whole world is trembling with the fate of that woman's wish."

"That's what Ditchwater Nam said," Nox murmured and stared back at the copy of Beedle the Bard's tales. "Did you write these?"

"Every single one," he replied. "Inked the runes by my own hand."

"No, what I mean is did you make them up yourself?" she asked urgently. "Are they stories or are – are they collected? I need to know – I need to know what's real and what isn't."

Across the room, George gave a long cat-like stretch in his chair, one arm falling lazily through Fred's silvery body as though he weren't there at all.

"Oh. I see." Sir Hector looked mournfully over her head and out the window. The streetlights had turned the snowy road outside bright orange in the night. "Some are mere fanciful tales of my own making. _The Warlock's Hairy Heart_, for example, was based on a rather pompous prince of Gwynedd, though not without its own important message. It speaks to the darkest depths and fears of us all: our fear of death."

"But some are based on real events, aren't they? Or as close as," said Nox darkly, and Sir Hector nodded his head gravely. "In every legend I've ever read of the Snow Queen she's had a mirror. In the one I grew up with she pierced the heart of a small boy with a sliver of glass. It changed him, made him do terrible things." She looked up at Sir Hector seriously. "I wouldn't say that's all too different from the people we've encountered… And if that's the case, every shard we collect might be piecing her mirror together and bringing her closer."

She set her jaw in a grim line. Her fingers brushed the symbol of the snake biting its own tail on the book she had taken from Ditchwater Nam.

"Do not trouble yourself with guilt. Gudrun has chosen her time to return and it is through no fault of your own," said Sir Hector in a gentle voice, watching her steadily from within his frame. "Even if you wanted to stop this, you could not. The Ouroboros chain is in motion and nothing can stop it from turning. You cannot get away from the Winter Witch, not unless you sail over the edge of the world and even then your chances would be slim. However," said Sir Hector, with a cunning glint in his diamond eyes, "there is a funny thing about fairytales, my dear. They don't teach us that dragons exist. They teach us that dragons can be killed."

**oOo**

"You're getting all morbid again."

"That's what comes of reading dirty great books."

"Too right. They'll do your nut in one day, Nox."

"Mind you," said Fred with a theatrical yawn, floating nonchalantly into a seat around the kitchen table, "reckon she might have a point there. Old Voldie-pants split himself like an orange in order to stick around longer than what's natural. Ancient Dark Magic, that is." He steepled his transparent fingers in thought, mulling over his last conversation with Jack Frost. "There's more dark magic where that came, I'll bet Galleons on it."

George shrugged. "Ah well, know what they say. Like mother like great, great, great, great, great, great pillock of a grandson. Problem is, where do we go from here?"

Nox sat upright in her chair. "What do you mean?"

"Well, s'not like we can carry on collecting shards if it means risking having this old bat come back to life, is it?" said Fred, glumly.

"Guess we'll just have to start preparing you a second funeral," said George. "Least you won't miss this one, Fred."

He grinned. "Always a silver lining."

Nox stood up and slammed her hands so hard on the table that a couple of the kitchen chairs scuttled away in fright. She looked livid and seemed to be holding back a barrage of very unflattering admonishments behind a clenched jaw.

"You," she trembled, "you lily livered, lazy, dim-witted, selfish, poxy pair of prats!" she shouted, while the twins pretended to duck behind the table in mock terror. "If you think for a SECOND you're giving up when we've come this far I'll knock your sodding heads together so hard it'll give your ancestors a migraine!"

"Calm down Nox, you great flat git," said Fred, rubbing his ears with a wince. "Crikey. Not the sharpest knife in the bleeding drawer, are you?"

"More like a bleeding spoon," muttered George as he tried to coax several pieces of the kitchen furniture back out of hiding with his wand.

"Did you really think I was going to lie down and have done with it? Let this curse take me back to Grigheim?" Fred snorted scornfully. "I've been there once and frankly I didn't care for the scenery much." He grinned at Nox toothily. "If you start convincing yourself you're going to lose before you've tried, then you're already a goner. I definitely won't die." He faltered, then added hastily, "_Again_."

"Exactly." George nodded. "If there's something we're good at, it's being wholeheartedly reckless. Besides, there's still two shards left and we can't very well leave whoever's got them in the lurch. If we don't stand up to Gudrun now, someone will have to finish her off in the future. And who's better suited to the job, I ask? I mean, one of us is already dead, so we're only risking two lives really."

"Cheers mate," muttered Fred.

"Anytime," George grinned.

Relief flooded her features and Nox settled back into her kitchen chair, which had cautiously scuttled back to its original place.

"Good." She smiled. "For a moment I thought you'd chickened out."

The twins guffawed loudly.

"Us?"

"Never!"

"Not unless Gudrun turns out to be an hundred-headed-hydra."

"Then we'll leave the heroics up to you."

"But you can deal with that no problem."

"Just throw one of your bloody great books at it."

"Excuse me while I find a container for my joy," replied Nox dryly. "Look, if we're really going to tackle Gudrun then we'll have to be exceptionally clever about it."

"Exceptional cleverness is our forte," Fred interjected, modestly.

Nox continued, "Which means we're going to hit the library and research everything we can about the Snow Queen, fact and fiction."

"Ah – _reading_," said George with a wince. "Our old foe."

"The blaggard," Fred muttered.

"Meanwhile, I'm going on a personal errand. And that reminds me," said Nox, fixing her gaze on the twins. "Did you know Mr Weasley knew Edward?"

"Your dad?" asked George, and the twins shared an uneasy, awkward look.

Nox merely smirked. "Don't bother. I can read you like a book. And not a very good book," she said flatly. "I can't say I'm very surprised. I suppose that's how you knew to search me out."

"Yeah, well everyone kind've knew your dad," Fred admitted.

"We all called him Uncle Ed," added George, with a shrug. "Dunno why. He was just a regular feature at the Leaky Cauldron. Like part of the furniture. Always good for a story and a round of Firewhiskey after nine. The Leaky wasn't the Leaky without Ed."

"Even came to Bill's wedding, remember?" said Fred to George. "Got dead drunk with Charlie and Hagrid, took his clothes off and fell in the punch. Mum was livid," Fred reminisced with glee.

"Bill's wedding?" Nox gawked while the twins cackled at the memory. "You mean your _brother_ Bill? Dad was...I mean Edward... He was there?"

The twins stopped laughing, their expression turned awkward and a little pained. Nox had become so ingrained in their lives that they had forgotten she had not been a part of their world back then. Nox's father was a touchy subject, not only for her but for their own father. Arthur Weasley had done everything in his power to track down Edward McRozen after his disappearance on the night Voldemort was killed, but there was not a shred of evidence to be found other than the old Harley that was found in a ditch off the M8 in Scotland. Moreover, if what Ditchwater Nam had told Nox was true and Edward had paid the price for her help, then maybe he was still alive and leaving breadcrumbs for them to follow. And that meant…

"You want to talk to someone close to Edward," said George, catching onto the detective's train of thought. "You think he might know something about Gudrun."

Nox nodded her head. "If Dad really did own Weasley Manor like Sir Hector said, then chances are he knew what was on the cards – that Gudrun was returning. That's the only explanation I can think of for setting up that payment with Ditchwater Nam long before we'd even got to Scrum."

"How about your mum?" asked George. "She's still around, isn't she? Maybe she knows something."

Nox shook her head. "Not a chance. After Mum broke it off with Edward, she left the country. I get a call from her at Christmas and on my birthday, but other than that she keeps her contact with me at a bare minimum. Never really forgave me for staying with Edward instead of her." She steepled her fingers and screwed her eyes up in deep thought. "When I was in the Angel Hotel, Merlin told me that Dad, Mr Weasley and Mr Lovegood all played at Grandma Elphuna's house in Dorset when they were growing up. I've never visited her house before, but she's always sending me letters. In fact she sent me one a couple of weeks ago. Maybe we could try her?"

"Kind of a loose thread, don't you think?" said George doubtfully, quirking an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Nox conceded, "but Merlin struck me as the type of character who never says anything unnecessary. He mentioned Gran for a reason."

"Look, no offense Noxy, but sure you should be trusting some old codger who's running around claiming to be a two-thousand year old wizard?" said Fred. "There's eccentric and there's just plain mental. He could be a villainous clod."

Nox shook her head and wagged a finger in the air. "Doubt it. Real villains are fair of face and foul of mind."

"So why'd you trust us then?" Fred joked.

"You're giving yourself way too much credit," Nox replied smoothly, getting up from her chair. "I'm heading to Dorset. Maybe you two should snoop around here a bit more, see what you can dig up in the attic."

"Other than a lot've dust?" muttered George miserably as he followed her lead, getting to his feet, but Fred remained sitting, with his arms folded stubbornly across his chest.

"No chance, Mug-lug," he said, sternly. "You forgotten what happened the last time you went on a job by yourself?"

"It's not a dangerous job this time," Nox protested. "It's just visiting relatives."

George gawked. "You don't call that a dangerous job?"

"We don't have time to mess around. You have until May to find the remaining shards," Nox argued. "It's March for goodness' sake! Stay here and search the house."

Fred shook his head stubbornly. "Fat chance, Muggle-brains."

"Before you start tearing each other to shreds again, how about I search the place with Caithion and you two head out to Dorset together?" George offered.

"George, don't be a sacrificial twit!" cried Fred, clutching his twin's shoulders with spectral hands. "He'll cut you up into little pieces and bury you in the walls the second your back's turned."

"Well Luna can help," said George. "He likes her."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about birds of a feather," Fred joked, smirking.

"Besides," George continued, pulling a rectangular object from one of the deep pockets of his bottle-green jacket. "I'd like our dear detective to keep her nose out of magic for a bit." He tossed an old book onto the table, his eyes steadily fixed on Nox. "I found something in your desk this morning. Thought it was just an ordinary book until I realised there's a pretty bloody powerful spell on it." He glared. "Fancy telling us how you got it?"

Nox paled. "Er, well. I might have borrowed it from Ditchwater Nam," she admitted reluctantly.

Fred's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. "Bloody Merlin. We _have_ corrupted you."

"Look, considering what Nam tried to do to us I figure it's fair compensation," Nox protested, but George did not look convinced.

"Things don't work like that in the Wizarding world, Nox. Stealing a magical object can be dodgy if you're not a fully trained witch or wizard – you never know if it'll have a thief's curse on it. Or something _worse_."

Daylight shone through the multi-coloured glass panels of the kitchen's domed skylight, illuminating the Ouroboros symbol embedded in the book's decaying leather binding.

"I took it round to Bill this morning and he did it the once over," said George, unable to take his eyes off the changing colours of the snake's scales. "Luckily Nam didn't put any thief curse on it, which probably meant she had stolen it previously herself. You can't put a thief curse on an object if you're the one who's nicked it in the first place."

"Alright, I'm sorry," she relented, sheepishly.

"But it has the Ouroboros symbol on it," Fred pointed out, his silver fingers drifting over the embossed snake biting its own tail. "Gudrun's symbol, that is. Could have some useful information."

George shook his head grimly and quickly slipped the book back inside his pocket. "Look, books are amongst the most dangerous magical objects in the world. The ones that don't want to be read don't for a reason," he said darkly, locking eyes with his brother. "I mean it, Fred. We should leave it alone."

Just then, a sharp tapping came at the kitchen window. George took his wand out of his pocket and waved it at the window-latch. It opened with a click and a stocky Tawny owl bustled through the window, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ tied to its leg. While George fed the owl a handful of breakfast leftovers, Nox untied the newspaper and spread it open on the table.

"Paper wasn't due today," Fred remarked and peered over Nox's shoulder in order to read the headlines. "…Bloody Merlin…"

"What?" asked George, returning from the kitchen window.

"The Confederation of Wizards met yesterday," said Fred, frowning. "They've put a ban on Apparition."

**oOo**

The place where Fred and George did most of their plotting was not just a science lab – it was the Den of Iniquity, the Land of Mischief; a Palace of Impudence. After her first month living in Weasley Manor Nox had learned not to fear the small explosions from the twins' workplace, but rather to fear the silence.

The large room was set deep into Weasley Manor, made entirely of rough, ancient stone, scorched and fire-marked after enduring long months of Fred and George's experiments. There were shelves and tables made of stone, of wood, of feathers; things that heaved a sigh when you sat on them; objects that took great umbrage if you did not wish them good day upon entering the room. The walls were encrusted with posters and blue-prints for products, and shelves lined with misshapen curios, potions and unnervingly labelled jars. A tangle of glass tubes pumping dozens of multicoloured potions wound themselves around the large room and high into the vaults of the ceiling, delivering their produce into a number of cauldrons and pots below.

The hubble and bubble of the myriad inventions, smoking cauldrons and fizzing firecrackers created all kinds of grotesque shadows on the wall, which danced and leaped about, occasionally taking on animal forms and scurrying into ceiling corners where they watched the masters of their playground at work below.

Above the immense fireplace (which burned purple, green or blue, depending on the day) were two gilt-framed paintings of the twins' late uncles, lost during the First Wizarding War against Voldemort. Fred and George always made sure to greet Gideon and Fabian Weasley when they entered the room. It was only proper. Their uncles were after all their namesakes. Between them a simple plaque was hung, which read: _We solemnly swear we are up to no good._

George was working alone at his desk, turning the book he had taken from Nox over in his hands, when a light knock came at the door and Luna Lovegood stepped into the room. He shifted in his seat to greet her, unsuccessfully suppressing a snort of laughter at her outfit. Luna was wearing a pair of oversized aviation goggles and her straggly, waist-length hair was stragglier than usual, sticking out from beneath the leather flaps of her helmet.

Zogbob, an illegally owned firedrake, eyed George coolly in way of greeting before unfurling itself from around Luna's waist and slithering towards the fireplace, where it promptly curled up and went to sleep.

"Nice to see someone's making himself at home," George muttered, eyeing the firedrake reproachfully. "Morning, Luna. You got my owl, then?"

"Yes. Yes, I did," she said, her popping eyes beaming with pride. "I must say I was rather surprised, but I'm very glad you asked for my help, George. It's like being told you're someone's favourite colour," she said in her vague tone, then greeted a slender coat-stand which did a little jig before taking her jacket.

"Yeah, well, you're the only one outside of Fred and Nox who knows everything, Luna," George admitted as he pocketed the old book with the Ouroboros symbol and got to his feet. "Nox was right. We could do with an extra pair of hands in finding the last two shards before May," he said smiling at her. "And who knows, maybe having a Ravenclaw on our side will do us some good!"

"_Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure_," Luna recited in a dreamy sing-song voice, peering through a glass beaker that magnified her moon-like eyes to the size of saucers. "Speaking of the Founders, I was wondering how much they might have to do with Fred's curse. Did you know that Rowena Ravenclaw died of a broken heart?"

"Broken heart, eh?" George repeated, plucking his beaten old top hat from the still blushing coat-stand and placing it at its usual jaunty angle atop his flaming head of hair. "Bit of a daft way to die, isn't it?"

Luna's pale eyes ranged over him carefully as they made their way into Weasley Manor's hexagonal entrance hall. "I used to think so, too. A bit like falling asleep while swimming across a lake. Now I am not so sure."

George faltered in his step. He didn't like the tone of her voice or the farther-away-than-usual look in her pale eyes. Instinctively, his right hand twitched towards her, an involuntary movement that took him by surprise, but before he could muster the courage to reach out for her or say the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for the last two weeks, Caithion stepped into view. Tall, dark and stately, he looked down his nose at George like a great black crow sizing up an ant for a quick snack, daring him to speak.

"Mr Weasley," he elicited, his snake-like tone dripping disdain.

George silently cursed the Irishman for his bad timing. "Why are you always dressed like somebody's just died?"

Caithion cocked a dark eyebrow. "Wait."

"Good morning, Caithion," Luna greeted, brightly, her owlish gaze magnified tenfold by her aviation goggles.

"Good morning, my dear." Caithion inclined his head towards her, his whole being lightening somewhat in her presence. "What brings you to this putrid den of iniquity and in such a delightful hat? I am afraid Nox is out on a personal errand."

"Oh, Mr Weasley brings me."

"How very disappointing," said the man, his bright violet eyes swivelling in his head towards George without the slightest movement of his head. "I have finished filing the report on the Angel Hotel case, Mr Weasley. Gathering information proved somewhat troublesome due to Argos Thickley's ridiculous posturing and poking his nose into matters his sizeable beak does not belong."

George rolled his eyes. "That thick git won't ever let up on us. He's had it in for me ever since Rosewood."

"I can't imagine why," said Caithion, dripping sarcasm. "His accusations of your suffering insanity are entirely unfounded."

George smirked. "Absolutely. I don't suffer from insanity at all. I enjoy every minute of it."

The spider-like Muggle pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it between his coral lips with his skull engraved lighter, then speaking through great clouds of smoke, said, "If you should need me-"

George waved a hand in the air to cut him off. "We're fine on our own. Just digging about some old wares in the attic, that's all."

Caithion gave him a long hard stare and replied, "Yes. But if you should need me…" Then, with a brief nod at Luna, he turned in one fluid motion and disappeared up the stairs and into the office.

"I don't think there is much point in lying to him, George," said Luna, when they were both sure Caithion was out of earshot. "Lying to him…it rather seems like trying to convince the wind it's blowing one way, when it's really blowing the other."

With a sinking feeling, George silently agreed with her. There was something different about Caithion. Not wizard-like, no. Not exactly magic, but not Muggle-like, either.

He tipped his hat back and grinned at the witch beside him. "Well, no point in wasting anymore time. C'mon. Let's get cracking!"

**oOo**

"Bloody hell, these Muggle buses are slow! Could have been there in the wink of a Snitch if it weren't for this Apparating ban." Fred exhaled in a rush, slouching in his seat by the window. Outside, the English countryside was rushing by, an endless blur of green fields laced with frost and stubborn patches of snow that refused to melt. He drummed his ghostly fingers on his knee, sighing loudly. "This is all your bleeding fault, Nox."

Nox glanced up from the battered red notebook her lap. "I'm flattered. How'd you work that one out? I didn't put the ban on Apparition."

"Well," said Fred, "put it this way – if you weren't a cheapskate, we could have got the train. Reckon it would've been faster than this Shooting Star."

"Listen sunshine, the bus is cheaper and I have rent to pay. Some people live in the real world," she retorted, then added grumpily, "Some people _live_."

"I heard that."

"Well then, be grateful you still have your hearing."

Fred shot her a wicked grin. "I do enjoy our morning squabbles, dearest. Can't think what afterlife would be like without you."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Anarchic? Chaotic? Uncivilised?

"Exactly. Bliss."

Nox was about to reply when she realised an elderly couple across the aisle were casting odd glances her way. Colour rushed to her cheeks.

"Shh! You're making me look like a nutter," she whispered, hiding her face in her notebook and pretending to scribble down notes.

"You are a nutter; Nutty Nox," Fred quipped, but she said nothing. He leered over her hunched shoulders. "Here, I've been thinking – you don't reckon this ban on Apparition has got anything to do with _you know what_?"

"It's possible," she nodded, still hiding her face behind her notebook. "Didn't the _Daily Prophet_ say Harry Potter was the one to propose the ban on Apparition? Isn't he the one who knows about-"

"Yeah, he is," Fred interrupted, shortly, a frowning creasing his silvery brow.

"But surely Harry would have told you about the ban if it had something to do with your curse."

The look that crossed Fred's face did not escape her notice. Her stomach dipped uncomfortably. Nox thought back to her brief encounter with Harry Potter at Christmas and how his strange green eyes had seemed to range over her, through her, under her, gliding through her mind like something solid and real. Harry's eyes were unlike any person's, wizard or otherwise, she had ever met in her life and the memory of them left the roof of her mouth feeling dry and sour.

"Harry's a mate, don't get me wrong," said Fred, quietly. "But lately something's been off with him. Something…" Fred trailed off, then shook his head, smiling. "Nah. It's nothing. Forget it. When we get back to London, me and George will send him another owl, see what he's up to. Here," he said, making no subtle attempt to change the subject, "you never did tell me how you and Percy knew each other from before."

"Oh? Haven't I?" Nox mumbled, her mind still mulling over Harry Potter. "That's odd."

Fred nodded. "Yeah it is. And?"

"Hmm? What?"

Fred quirked his lips. "All right, you're getting that vague Luna-look about you, Nox. I forbid you to spend anymore time with her."

Nox snorted back a laugh. "You can't forbid me from seeing my best friend."

Fred gawked. "I thought _I_ was your best friend?"

"You are joking, aren't you?" she said, expression dry as her tone. "Forgive me if I'm wrong-"

"You're forgiven."

"-but I'm sure people don't habitually poison their best friends. Speaking of which, last night I found my toothpaste replaced with Jabbering Jam. I was talking in riddles for a whole ruddy hour."

"Oh? How did that get in there?" asked Fred innocently, with mock surprise.

"I wonder." She sized him up critically, but with a very small smile tugging on her lips. "It would have made more sense to travel to Dorset with Luna, you know. You'd be more help searching Weasley Manor for clues with George and besides, Luna likes the bus. Says the back row is the perfect breeding place for the travelling Cucuio."

"Come off it. Luna's witty banter is comparatively lacking in respects," Fred argued modestly. "Unless, perhaps, George is the subject. _Is_ he the subject?" he added, with idle curiosity, as the bus rounded a corner into a tidy little village and began to slow to a halt.

"That depends. Are we fishing for gossip?" she asked coolly, as the vehicle pulled into the bus station. The elderly Muggle couple across the isle were looking at Nox strangely, who once more appeared to them to be chatting with thin air. Nox gave them an awkward sort of smile as they left the bus, shaking their heads and tutting sadly at her apparent loss of wits.

"Come off it, Mug-lug," drawled Fred, while Nox pulled a small rucksack from the overhead luggage department and they made their way off the bus. "I see the way she looks at him with those massive googly eyes of her's," he continued. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it. I like her – she's a few Knuts short of a Galleon, mind, but hey, the best of us are."

"Mere accumulation of observation is not proof of anything, Fred," Nox protested. "Besides, it's none of our business."

"That's what you say when you know something," he commented slyly.

"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion," she conceded, avoiding his penetrative stare. "It's just that yours is stupid."

Grandmother Elphuna, known to most in the Wizarding world as the distinguished Lady Oddness, lived just outside of the small, doll-like village of Ringwood, located at the boundary of the New Forest; a strip of wild, untouched heathland and forest. Lady Elphuna Oddness was not, strictly speaking, Nox's grandmother, but rather her father's great grandmother and Nox rather suspected that there were several more 'greats' missing from that title.

The way to Lady Elpuna's house lay beyond a small wood, but Fred and Nox became lost several times before finding the start of the narrow path cutting between a row of pretty cottages. Indeed, they might never have found the path if it weren't for the spindly black cat who stopped and stared at them beseechingly, before walking a few paces and stopping again, as if patiently waiting for them to catch up.

"Think it wants us to follow us?"

"It's a _cat_," said Nox flatly.

"I'm a _ghost_," replied Fred, pointedly, after which Nox reconsidered her objection and together they followed the black cat through a short wood, while she occupied her mind with multiplication tables in a desperate attempt to regain her footing on rhyme and reason.

At the end of a wood was a kissing gate and beyond was an old cottage sitting on its own little hillock, surrounded by a crumbling medieval wall, spattered with green and white lichen. There was something grim and of the graveyard in the wall that surrounded the small house.

They watched the cat's lithe black form slide easily through the kissing gate and up the path overgrown with long frost-sparkling grass towards the cottage. Fred drifted easily through the kissing gate as if it were no more than air, but as Nox passed through the gate she felt the strangest horror of being trapped. The feeling lingered as she followed Fred up the hill towards Lady Elphuna's house and something told her not to look over her shoulder at the wood behind.

After eight months with one foot in the Wizarding world, Nox was not surprised when the building her grandmother inhabited changed as they stepped through the gate in the wall from a humble cottage to an enormous black timber-framed building with rows of blue painted sash windows in boxes set flush against the white washed walls and red rooftops. Though Tudor in style, the house had been added to over the years, much like the higgledy-piggledy _Burrow – _extra rooms had been magically fixed to the sides and rooftops, like building blocks stacked one on top of the other. Altogether, the house presented a ruinous and forlorn appearance, as if was clinging to a distant memory when it had once been grand and frequented often. Even so, the house still bore its title proudly, the words etched deeply in ornate script into the black painted beam above the door:

_The House of Sometimes Intolerance_

**oOo**

George and Luna had spent the greater part of the afternoon skulking around the many rooms in the Halls of Fortitude, bothered the _One-Vice Ogre_ in the basement (the one vice in question being its murderous temper when bothered), prodded the bottomless, acid snail-infested sand pits at the far end of the garden, lowered Luna down an abandoned, unmarked well and perused the torture chambers quite by accident.

Now they were slumped on the stone-flagged floor some distance down the passageway behind the staircase. Luna was vigorously cleaning the inside of her goggles with a corner of her long skirt. A smile lit something deep inside George as he watched her work, admiring how her eyes were everywhere and nowhere at once. Her long, straggly, dirty-blonde hair pooled around her on the floor, her pale legs stretched out in front of her, every inch of them covered in scratches from long Snorkack-hunting expeditions.

"What're you doing, Lu?" he asked at length. "Catching Nargles?"

Luna glanced up from her work. "Dreamites. They collect in the corners of your goggles or glasses and get into your dreams through your eyes," she explained, conversationally. "I don't like them much. Don't you think there's something quite impolite about stamping into another person's dreams without asking first? It's a bit like-"

"-walking into a spider web while the spider's still weaving it?" said George, a grin on his lips at the flush on Luna's face.

She nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, just like that!"

For a moment they sat and smiled at each other, as if sharing some special secret that no one else was privy to, and as he looked at her George wished he could say that which he had wanted to for so long. But it was not so straightforward as that and he knew that his aching conscience had nothing to do with Rolf Scamander.

Luna, for all his silence, seemed to read his thoughts and her gaze shifted away. A small frown creased her forehead.

"Has that tapestry of Helga Hufflepuff always been there?" she asked, pointing towards the end of the dark hallway where a figure loomed in the dim light.

At first George thought the figure might be a ghost, but upon raising his wand and casting a _lumos_ spell, they could clearly see the ancient tapestry at the end of the hall. Helga Hufflepuff sat patiently, silently, just as she had in the portrait Viktor had hung on the walls of Blackwater Hall. The Hogwarts Founder was not the tall, lithe, stunning beauty that Rowena Ravenclaw had been, but had her own natural grace; bright-eyed and sturdy, and running a bit into plumpness with a charming, dimpled smile that seemed to hide many secrets. Wordlessly, without even moving her head, she raised her right arm and George and Luna followed the line of her pointed finger to where the hallway swerved in a steep curve.

Something moved. It was little more than a shadow, like a little patch of night. For a second George thought it might have been a spider. They peered closer.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim light they could make out a cluster of tiny bones piled on the floor. George shared a bemused glance with Luna and they crept closer. A short moment passed and then suddenly, as if they knew they had been discovered, the bones shuddered to life and scuttled down the darkened hall. Instantly, George took to his heels and chased the _tak-tak-tak-tak_ sound of the tiny bones as they scuttled through the corridors and skidded to a halt, disappearing under the skirting board and out of sight. George was about to dive after the bones, his wand-hand outstretched towards the place where they had disappeared beneath the wall, when Luna grabbed him by the arm.

"What is it?" he asked, perplexed.

Luna pointed.

There, in the middle of the wall, was a hand, carved in granite and finely cracked with age. Surrounded by a medieval stone arch, the hand reached out of the wall towards them as if frozen in mid-handshake, the cold stone fingers outstretched and beckoning.

"Oh!" Luna suddenly exclaimed, causing George to very nearly jump out of his skin. "I've heard of this before!"

"So have I," George nodded. "It's called a hand."

"No, it's an _Un-door_."

George raised his eyebrow. "Never heard of an Un-door before. What's it do? Open you up instead?" he joked.

"Yes, I think so," she replied, missing his tone of irony completely. She pushed her goggles onto her forehead and peering closely at the outstretched hand with round owlish eyes. "It is probably the entrance to a secret room. Instead of opening it, it sort of opens you. Perhaps it judges whether or not you're fit to enter."

George quirked his lips. "Blimey, I'd rather not be opened up, if it's all the same."

"Oh, but there's no point in sitting around wondering whether you should do something when you know in the end you're going to do it," said Luna, cheerfully. "That's like scratching your head when somebody's about to jinx it off."

And before he could stop her, she was reaching out to grasp the hand. The moment her flesh touched the cold stone, the Un-door closed tightly around her own and pulled her through the wall. Before George could think, he grabbed her elbow and followed her through.

**oOo**

Caithion Sidhe had many things on his mind, all the time. Some of them were people, some of them were objects, but the greater part of them were puzzles. Caithion liked puzzles. They helped him pass the time.

George Weasley was one such puzzle. He was alike his twin in many ways and different in many others. What his choice of action would be, Caithion could not decipher. It did not matter, he mused; the actions of others were not his responsibility. It was merely the outcome that mattered.

It was then that he noticed the thick curtain covering the broken mirror in the office shift in the breezeless room. His slanted eyes narrowed further to mere violet slits. The cloth shivered and the house creaked. A sliver of silver mist streaked out from underneath the curtain, drifting from the mirror towards the open door. The tips of the coiling tendrils of mist sprouted fingers; long and waggling through the air as though reaching for something, like a hand beneath the surface of a pool, groping desperately for air.

Caithion followed the snaking tendrils of mist through the door and down the broad staircase onto the black and white stone-flagged entrance hall. At the foot of the steps, the coiling mist-like fingers halted abruptly, as if uneasy to go any further. Caithion's eyes followed their would-be path to the door.

It was as though a heat haze was drifting up from the threshold of Weasley Manor, obscuring the door almost entirely. Two vaguely animal-like shapes flanked either side of the main door, staring intently at the foot of the staircase where the smoking tendrils of mist twisted, their long fingers arching sinisterly, as if ready to spring an attack.

"Go back," he hissed, quietly. "You are not strong enough to face them." He plucked the cigarette from between his pale lips and tapped the dead ash onto the floor. "Not yet."

**oOo**

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** Hope that chapter was nice and long for you! Next casebook kicks off in the next chapter. Again, I'm so sorry for the epically long wait and I really hope the George x Luna romance was enough to make up for it. XD


	28. On Passing Hallows

**A/N: **I promise to write a proper author's note later, but I have to jump on a bus to the other side of the country, so all I'll say for now is HOLYBEEJEEBUS THANK YOU! Special thank yous go out to Peregrinus5Floh for her absolutely mind-boggling fanart of the Twin Vice cast (if you haven't seen it, get to the TVPD club on Devi now, it's incredible) and Spottedleafpaw for her amazing Nox cosplay. Seriously, girl, you ARE Nox. It's frightening (in an awesome way)! Remus-Chocolade has been working on an excellent multi-chaptered spin-off TVPD fanfic, "Werewolf", which you can read here on (it's in my favs, go check it out). Endless thank yous to you all!

I also managed to nab a beautiful commission of Caithion, Fred and Nox by the very talented Jubilations, which you can also see on the club. Have fun with that bag of goodies! Now on with the fic before I miss my bus…

**Edit:** ...I missed my bus.

* * *

**Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives**

On Passing Hallows

'_The experience of time permeates all our lives. Indeed, the word 'time' is one of the most overused words in the English language. Time is with us all the time; it determines history and measures a structured world that we have fashioned. We assume that it is a tangible force, that it is invisible, but all around. We trust that time moves in linear fashion, but in fact that it moves in circles is evidential. For anyone who has ever had the misfortune to find themselves a part of a prophecy, it is painfully obvious that time and history like cycles.'_

'_The problem with historians is that they believe time can be measured. Time, in truth, is a dreadful cosmic joke.'_

Edward Balthazar McRozen, Forests of Time, 1982

**oOo**

_14__th__ March, 2004_

It began with the bodies on the Thames.

It was on that day, twenty-four hours after the meeting in the _Entrees des Catacombes_, when the people of London began to feel a change in the city.

Almost at the same time Fred Weasley and Detective Nox left for the _House of Sometimes Intolerance_, did a group of Muggle children sight the first body as it floated face-down onto the shore close to the Houses of Parliament.

Four bodies were discovered in the end. What troubled the authorities so was the victims, Hannah Heddleston, Gerald Griffiths, Simon Sedgwick and Rosmelda Roberts, had been complete strangers in life. Moreover, only one hailed from London. The other three lived far, far from the city: Mrs Roberts had been a school teacher and mother of three in a small town in the Scottish Highlands. Miss Heddleston, the youngest of the four at only fifteen, was traced back to Newport in Wales and the last, Gerald Griffiths, had been a contractor from Godric's Hollow in Cornwall.

Authorities were bewildered. The only obvious factor the four people had in common was the very nature of their deaths. Black bruises darkened their ankles, arms and necks as if many clawed fingers had dragged them down into watery graves. Worse, their pale flesh was punctured with teeth marks too big to be work of little fishes. Stories quickly flew around the city, but it was not long before talk of the four bodies on the Thames was replaced by an even stranger occurrence.

Between Tottenham Court Road and Holborn on the Central Line, a train disappeared without trace. The Central Line was shut down at once and teams of engineers and Underground officials crept into the old tunnels to investigate, but it was as if the very darkness had swallowed the train up, snuffing it out like a candle flame. The teams of investigators quickly became uneasy in the vaulted tunnels, jostling each other in tones that were only half-joking, "Betcha it disappeared at the old British Museum station. Haunted station, that is, an' make no mistake."

While Muggle authorities were still scratching their heads at the missing train and its passengers, the 'Friends of Highgate Cemetery' were standing in Swain's Lane puzzling over the gate to the old graveyard which, despite all their efforts, remained stubbornly locked. At length they each agreed that the old iron gate had simply frozen over in the cold and that they would try again tomorrow, but as they turned to leave through Waterlow Park a chill silence fell over them; nobody truly believed the gate was frozen. By the time they exited the park, each had already settled on a nice excuse to avoid work the next day.

The last sign came without warning and from nowhere. Nobody was quite sure when it appeared, though the policeman on duty swore blindly that it had not been there before midday. But sure as day it was there now. Above the North entrance of Westminster Abbey, scrawled in enormous bone-white letters, were the words:

'_Lundoners – r__emember the old Enemy. Leave the city while you can.'_

And as the crowd around Westminster Abbey grew it began to snow.

**oOo**

"Travelling around together, visiting your relatives." Fred sighed dramatically. "I dunno, isn't it about time we just admitted how we feel for each other? Even just for the duration of a quick snog?"

"No," said Nox. "I think we should wait."

Fred's eyes sparked. "Until when?"

"Until both of us are dead."

The House of Sometimes Intolerance seemed to give them an appraising look where they stood on its doorstep, glaring down through vaulted gables and shuttered windows strung with icicles that glittered like swords. The house had the look of someone who had once known the finer things in life and was not shy to boast of it, but now resembled a man in a deflated top hat clinging to the last vestiges of his status.

She lifted the brass knocker on the door and rapped three times.

Suddenly, the main entrance shuddered to life like a great beast and the front door, studded with crooked iron nails, opened to reveal a bulky figure silhouetted against the lanterns that lit the inner corridors.

Nox grimaced; her grandmother had been the source of many nightmares during her childhood. While it had been many years since Nox had been any sort of child (for it was commonly agreed that she had been born old), she felt a familiar shudder of fear creeping down her spine now that she was standing beneath that vast, crinkly bulk and stony grey eyes once more.

Lady Elphuna Chatterly glowered like a wax-work come to life. She was a bizarre sight to behold, her huge bulk more than adequately filling the golden, lion-footed chair that held her aloft. The old witch had a crinkly edge to her that was most unnatural and a nose that could make a crow's beak look not so beaky. The hands that fiercely gripped the arms of the golden chair were as gnarled as old tree roots. Her liver spots were caked under several layers of white concealing-powder and the generous coats of blood-red lipstick she wore made each wrinkle on her lips appear as deep as a crevasse. Her enormous veined bosom was bursting at the seams of the purple corset she boasted (Fred secretly wondered if it were the only thing holding the old witch together). But it was her left eye that drew most attention – particularly the curious ticking it made. The witch's left eye was fashioned from the inner workings of a pocket watch, but Fred and Nox had the unsettling feeling it could see them with perfect clarity.

The wax work witch stretched her alarmingly long neck towards Fred, peering suspiciously. He flinched with repulsion as the movement caused another stitch to come loose on the tight corset.

"Hullo Gran," said Nox, in a world weary voice. "You look…different."

"And you look remarkably disappointing," the witch remarked, looking her up and down severely. Then she tapped a long painted nail against her clockwork eye. "You are also late. We expected you a week ago."

Nox was surprised. "I didn't know you were expecting me."

"Of course we were expecting you. One is _always_ expecting relatives, despite never desiring their presence." Lady Elphuna glanced cautiously over their shoulders at the snowy wood down the hill. A sound, like the clinking of a horse's harness, made Fred and Nox turn around, but the witch clicked her tongue sharply.

"Don't look. And don't say anything. The wood is full of movement; we are being watched," she said brusquely. "Come in. The days are short and it is becoming dangerous to travel by dark. We have much to discuss with you before the sun sets."

The lion-footed chair began to turn and stagger back into the house with immense effort, heaving and creaking under Lady Elphuna's immense weight. "This way please. Don't dawdle. The Hob shall make up some tea, though we don't desire you should take that as an extended invitation. We've had a terrible attack of the vapours, you understand. And we don't like people. Particularly dead ones."

Fred bristled and made a very rude gesture at the witch's back.

"Your Gran's a right treat," he whispered in Nox's ear, very sarcastically. "All the charm of a broken broomstick, she has. What's this flipping royal 'we' all about?"

Nox looked for a moment as if she were forming a retort, but instead shrugged her shoulders with a jaded sigh and followed Lady Elphuna inside. She wasn't entirely sure what an attack of the vapours was herself. Nox had always suspected it involved damsels in distress who swooned to the floor with much crumpling of the dress. No one had attacks of the vapours these days. People just swore instead, which she thought was much more satisfactory. Her grandmother had always seemed stuck in a Jane Austen age of vapours and smelling salts and not for the first time Nox questioned whether she really was related to anyone in her eccentric family.

"Come along, Gertrude," Lady Elphuna ordered shortly from deeper down the murky hallway. "You may drag that dead thing along if you must, but you should not keep a Hob waiting. They are very touchy about slothfulness."

Nox raised her eyebrows questioningly at Fred. "A Hob?"

Fred fumed. "A _dead_ _thing_?"

"You didn't have to come," she said with a lightly mocking smirk. "You could have stayed at home and finished the accounts like I asked you four weeks ago."

"I did finish with the accounts," Fred retorted, "I turned them into a casual but stylish jacket."

"Cheers. That'll come in dead handy," she bit back. "So what _is_ a Hob?"

"They're a bit like House-elves, only they're shape shifters and work out of free will for bed and board," Fred explained, swinging his pale arms behind his head. "They'll attach themselves to a family or place and work for them as long as they please, but they're really rare now."

"Hush!" Lady Elphuna snapped, her long, turtle-like neck stretching around the back of her chair to glower at them. "We do not tolerate mumblers in our house. _Articulate_, boy. It is the _least_ the dead can do."

Nox couldn't help but smile at the mulish expression on Fred's face. He looked as though he was holding back a barrage of very unflattering invectives.

"Hold your temper," she warned. "This is her on a good day."

"I can't help being angry when I'm furious," Fred grunted, then waved a hand in the air, coolly. "But I choose not to retort, thwarted only by my indefatigable good form."

"Swallow that thesaurus again?"

He grinned. "I hear they count as one of your five a day."

As they followed Lady Elphuna through the once grand hall that was now grim and unwelcoming, Nox became aware of a strange energy in the air and a hollow kind of whispering that she felt rather than heard in her very bone marrow. There was something of Blackwater Hall in her grandmother's house – something that spoke of deadly danger and distant drums. What illumination the oil lamps along the walls provided only served to deepen the ancient blackness of the shadows.

The crinkly-edged Lady Elphuna stopped at the end of the main hall by an oak door adorned by a simple plaque and turned to Fred and Nox with an expression that seemed to declare her disapproval with their presence in her home.

"You will wait inside," she said curtly. "We shall join you shortly." And with that, Lady Elphuna's chair staggered off into the depths of the house.

Without the old witch the house suddenly felt icy cold. Suddenly Nox became startlingly aware of a smell of chill salt water creeping into her nostrils. She quickened her pace towards the oak door where Fred, who had not bothered waiting for her to open it, had slipped through as easily as water through a sieve. After a painful bump on the head, Nox remembered that she could not pass through doors or walls like he could.

"You'll want to open that thing first, Mug-a-lug," Fred called out in a mocking tone. Then he turned to take in his new surroundings and whistled appreciatively. "Blimey, look at this!"

"Fred," Nox began questioningly, opening the door wide and tripping into the room, "the plaque on this door reads 'Department of Magical Antiquities'. I thought all magical departments were situated in the Ministry of Magic."

Fred could only shake his head dumbly and point. "Not this one. Not unless it fancied a holiday."

His words echoed faintly around the huge room. There in front of them were two enormous glass orbs of water, each at least twenty feet in height and half the width of a Quidditch pitch. The tanks were braced like old Victorian globes with girders of green-gray copper, along which several golden plaques were attached, framed by ornate fish tails and coiling sea serpents. Above the aquarium was a spherical skylight covered in moss. What little musty light it allowed dimly illuminated a long metal gantry, which joined the two tanks at their pinnacle. In front of each tank were two signs. The right hand sign read '_Placid_' and the left, in bold red script, read '_Carnivorous_'.

Walking alongside the tanks they realised what they were looking at was a gigantic seawater aquarium, though not, as Nox had come to expect, the kind you would find in a Muggle tourist attraction. She began to run her hand over the ornate plaques secured to the tank marked, 'Placid', reading aloud, "_Sea-Monks_, _Ashrays_, _Hippocampus_…" She paused at the Hippocampus plaque showing an embossed image of a composite sea-creature with the head and forearms of a horse and the serpentine tail of a fish.

Fred poked his head through the thick pane of glass and into the dark water. "Godric be damned, can't see a bleeding thing in here."

"Maybe whatever was in here has been moved?" she offered hopefully. They may not have been lurking beside the tank full of Carnivorous creatures, but all the same Nox was quite happy to see nothing moving in the deep blue waters. She turned her attention to the next plaque and read out loud, "_Piscis Humanis_."

Before she could read any further there was a sudden sharp tap on the glass above her head. Nox jumped, tripping gracelessly with wind milling arms straight through Fred's ghostly body. He swore and wrenched his head out of the tank, scowling at her.

"Oi! Watch it! Next time you want to get that close you can buy me dinner first."

Nox ignored him, gawking in silence at the shoal of _Piscis Humanis_ swimming just above Fred's head. He followed her gaze and scrambled beside her, open mouthed. Each fish was the size of a great white shark, their long tails swishing in the darkness of the water, and the shimmering coral scales along their backs were studded with iridescent red and blue dots, which bathed the waters in a ghostly flickering light. But what frightened Nox and chilled Fred to his very core were their distinctly human faces. Worse, they were not the faces of grown men and women, but of mournful children.

"We do not look them in the eye," Lady Elphuna's voice echoed around the Aquarium. "Just because a creature is not classed as carnivorous does not mean it cannot do you harm."

The witch was sitting at a silver table between the two tanks, watching them impassively through her one grey eye. The black cat who had led them to the house was sitting by her lion-footed chair, licking the underside of one paw and running it over its whiskered face. Two cups, a pot of tea and a bowl of dubious looking hard-boiled Brighton candy sat on the table.

Nox readily joined her grandmother, eager to get away from the disturbingly human faces of the _Piscis Humanis_.

"They look so sad," she said quietly, while Fred drifted down beside her, his eyes on the floor. He looked quite shaken. She took a cup of tea in her hands and sipped, grateful for the comforting hot liquid. "Is there anything you can do for them, Gran?"

"For them? No. We have done all we can," replied Lady Elphuna sombrely. "The _Piscis Humanis_ were made, not born. They are not living creatures. They exist, but they do not _live_." She gave them a hard stare. "We are sure you know who is responsible for their making."

"_Gudrun_," said Fred, spitting the name out like acid. Nox gave him a sidelong look.

Lady Elphuna nodded her head tartly. "Correct. Gudrun created many things to fulfil her dark wish. In her endeavours to stop death she worked very old and very terrible magic. Many of the things she left in this world were far too dangerous to keep locked away inside the Ministry and so they came here, though I have often pondered the wisdom of that decision. But we will get to that shortly. First you might tell me how you found your way into the wizarding world, Gertrude." She looked at Fred's pearly white ghost and wrinkled her beaky nose in distaste. "And why you are keeping company with the deceased."

**oOo**

For a moment George couldn't believe where he was. From the Un-Door they had emerged into an immense room that seemed to function as a library, though it was unlike any library George had ever set foot in. It was a great forest of trees, books piled neatly along the boughs and branches of chestnuts, willows and oaks. The walls of the library were built from rough ancient looking bricks that arched into a seemingly endless green canopy above their heads, giving the whole room (if it could be called a room, for it came to him that he could not see the other three walls) a distinctly medieval feel. Rogue pages escaped their bindings and flitted silently through the leaves, perching on branches like small oriental birds to preen great plumes of coiling words, and the whole place was lit by a perpetual green glow by ornate gas lamps stationed at regular intervals along the avenues of trees.

George and Luna stood on a short flight of narrow stone steps that glistened with algae, looking like a wet snake in the eerie green light. Above their heads an enormous gas lamp grasped in a huge iron dragon's claw spat and bubbled behind thick panes of green glass.

"Blimey," George whistled. "If Hogwarts' library looked anything like this me and Fred might have bagged ourselves some more OWLs."

"Look down there. What do you think it is?" said Luna. "I can almost make it out, but not quite and there's nothing more exasperating. It's like not finishing what you started out to say."

George peered as well. "Mouse," he decided. "Definitely that mouse."

And indeed, sitting on the bottom step was the skeleton of the mouse, preening itself nimbly and happily unaware of its audience. George was about to march after it when Luna grasped his arm at pointed further on towards the trees. Adjusting his eyes to the green gloom of the library, he saw that there were thousands of skeletal mice creeping over the trees and books, pulling them from their shelves and organising them into their rightful places.

"What are they?" he asked in a low voice.

"Librarians, I suppose." Luna began to rock on her heels, her round moon-ish eyes drinking in the peculiar sight quite happily. "Every library needs them. Books would get quite lost without them. It's difficult to put yourself in order when you haven't any arms or legs."

"So what you're saying is that this place is just a great big stinking magical library?" George muttered, and with an audible sniff of contempt.

"A magical library?" she echoed.

"Well, yeah."

Luna stared at him, unblinking. "Magic how?"

"How many libraries have you been in where the librarians are undead rodents?"

She tapped her wand against her chin thoughtfully. "I still don't see how that makes it especially magic."

"Well it's a kind of magic."

"What kind of magic?"

"A…A _magicky_ kind of magic," he finished, weakly.

The skeleton mouse no longer seemed afraid of them. It sat on its haunches listening and watching them carefully through empty sockets, head cocked to one side. Then, with a tiny jolt, it turned and moved off into the trees, pausing at the edge of the wood to look round at them, then skittered on ahead. Without a moment's hesitation, Luna began to follow.

George snatched her arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm following the librarian," she answered simply.

He gawked. "Yeah, but why?"

"Librarians lead you to the place you want to be, don't they?" said Luna, serenely. "We don't know where we are, let alone why. That's worse than rolling downhill backwards in the dark."

George responded with a grin, "Look, Luna, it's not that I want to go. It's more like I don't want to stay here. At all. Y'know? I'm a renegade, a prankster – a dashing maverick, if you will. Libraries don't sit well with my sort."

She laughed at him in a strangely lilting way and the light sound swelled in his chest until he felt fit to burst. Then she took a step back, her round eyes locking with his as, smiling, she held out her small pale hand to him. Sometimes that was all it took; the slightest of gestures and suddenly you're opening a door with a whole new insight into a person you thought you knew so well. Often, when he looked at Luna, he saw more of her Patronus than her face. There always had been something very animal-like about her mannerisms; something straightforward and accepting of the people and things around her, despite being set apart. Maybe that was why he could breathe so easily around her? She never did expect anything from anyone. Sometimes it took being close to someone so full of knowing and marvellous understanding that words of wisdom and advice weren't needed. At that moment, George knew he was in love with Luna Lovegood.

He grasped her hand and squeezed it tightly, winking at her.

"Don't want to get lost in there."

She smiled shyly back and together they walked into the narrow pathway between the trees where the skeleton mouse was waiting twitchily on the leafy forest floor.

Around them, the woods were dark and whispering, but George's heart was drumming deafeningly loud in his ears. Luna's hand was small but strong in his own; absolutely perfect. It was while he was studying the infinite characteristics of her hand in his that the book in his pocket – the very book Nox had taken from Ditchwater Nam's shop – hummed to life and began leaking words, scrawls of black spidery handwriting trickling from pages like rainwater onto the leafy path behind them.

**oOo**

Fred and Nox proceeded to tell Lady Elphuna all that had happened since they had met the previous summer, taking turns to explain about Fred's Curse, Salazar Slytherin's house, their first case together in Rosewood, the water nymph in Aber Duafe, the wolves, the shards, Ditchwater Nam, Viktor Lestrade's mirrors, and the old man who called himself Merlin.

While they talked, the black cat curled itself on Nox's lap and began to purr. The witch did not interrupt or show a single expression of surprise as they explained everything they could remember of the last eight months, only picked at a blotchy red scab from her heavily powdered chin, peeled it off and popped it her mouth with a stomach churning crunch. Fred gagged, his transparent cheeks turning a shade more opaque.

"So, you have made a contract, Gertrude," said Lady Elphuna when they had finished their tale. "One with the dead and living twins …and a second contract with…" She paused. "Ah, it seems that is not for us to know."

"The wolf in the Black Forest told me the same thing," Nox recalled, "but I don't know anything about a second contract. One was quite enough," she added ruefully, looking askance at Fred who grinned guilelessly.

"We cannot tell you anything of this second contract," Lady Elphuna admitted, peering at her granddaughter through the clockwork eye. "True this contract is written all over you clear as day, but the words are misty, undefined." She gave Fred a fierce, but questioning look. "No Muggle should be able to see ghosts or enter my house without being born the seventh child of a seventh child or gifted with Second Sight as Edward was. In both cases it is obvious you are neither, Gertrude. You are as plain as a toad," she said, her upper lip curling in a faint disgust. "So we wonder that this second contract is not responsible for these new eyes of yours. We find it difficult to believe a mere confectionary responsible."

Fred gave Nox a rather inscrutable look, his eyebrows pulling closer in deep thought. "You don't think Edward could have something to do with this other contract?"

Nox shrugged at him miserably. The last thing she needed was another riddle to solve. She turned to her grandmother beseechingly. "We were hoping you might shed some light on how Dad could have known we'd wind up meeting Ditchwater Nam on Scrum."

Lady Elphuna shook her head weightily. "All we know is your father was a master of many traits. Being a Squib never stopped him in his endeavours for he never saw his Squib status as a curse. To Edward it was a blessing – an outlook few others in the Wizarding World share, including our self," she added pompously, with a pointed look at Nox. "Indeed, his high opinion of Muggles was equally unusual. They were even the subject of his first published academic work,_ Of Muggles and More_. We were sent a signed copy, but we have never had the stomach to read it. One has always found it impossible to converse with Muggles in rational ways. Their eyes are as dull as ditch water."

"That's rich coming from someone who looks like a face trapped in a haunted mirror," Fred remarked coolly. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but your great granddaughter here happens to be a Muggle. There isn't an ounce of magic in her entire flipping body and you know what? She doesn't need it! She's bloody marvellous just the way she is."

Nox jerked her head towards him, her skin prickling with sudden heat. Fred had never defended her so fiercely before. In fact, he was normally the first to tease her about being a Muggle. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and quickly shifted her gaze to the floor.

Lady Elphuna did not appear as impressed by the ghost's outburst.

"We are well aware what our great granddaughter is, thank you. You will hold your tongue, grave-walker. Politeness is the poetry of conduct," she said crisply, plucking a hair from her left nostril. "You mistake my concern for my granddaughter's well-being for dislike, boy. Gertrude is my last living relative. We would be most aggrieved if we had to bury her too. Funerals are such tedious affairs after all."

Nox flinched at this remark, but was quick to gather herself. "If you can't tell us about Dad, maybe you can tell us more about Gudrun. He must have known something about her. Did he write any books? Leave any notes behind?"

"Anything is useful at this point," Fred admitted, though he was glowering at the old witch.

The black cat in Nox's lap twitched its ears and sprang to the floor, its golden-yellow eyes watching the _Humanis Picis_ warily. The shoal of fish were swimming back and forwards in an agitated manner, their round mouths opening and closing as if in warning. Lady Elphuna did not seem to notice their frantic movements, however, and settled her vast bulk deeper into the lion-footed chair.

"Very well. We can tell you all your father knew of Gudrun. You might as well know what you are dealing with before it murders you horribly. But it is dangerous to talk of her so close to the ley lines. We will not have long." The witch took a deep rattling breath, fanned herself with a conjured paper doily, and began.

"In Scotland she is known as Nicnivin who rode on the storm and marshalled the rambling Host of wanderers under her grim banner. Across the continent she is known as the Shadow Queen or Snow Witch, except in Germany where she is better known as Berchta of the Wild Hunt. In Spain, she is the Queen of Estantigua who warns all she meets to travel by day, for the night belongs to her. Those in the wizarding world knew her more personally as Gudrun, mother of the twins Sol and Salazar, who set the latter to slaughter the first."

Nox looked up, her lips parting with a sudden sharp intake of breathe. "It's possible the curse Salazar Slytherin's house placed on you is really just a means of piecing Gudrun's mirror back together and bringing her back."

Fred gave her a pained look. "Cheers, pile on the guilt why don't you."

"Perhaps," Lady Elphuna consented, "but we are not convinced. No, in fact we do not believe that Salazar wished his mother to return to power at all after Godric Gryffindor sealed her away in the mirror Ouroboros."

"Of course he would," Fred argued. "The slimy git killed his twin brother on her orders. If he was willing to do that there's not much else he wouldn't stretch to, is there?"

"Then why did he build a house on the very site he murdered his twin? A site which, like my own house, sits on crossing ley lines," said Lady Elphuna, her narrow eyes sparking with something close to amusement. "No, Salazar was not just showing remorse for the blood crime he committed."

"He was building a prison," Nox concluded, her eyes widening. "Weasley Manor isn't a trap to lure Gudrun back. It's a prison to keep her locked in forever."

Lady Elphuna gazed at Nox with something resembling admiration. "We are pleased to see you are not as dim-witted as your looks suggest."

Fred and Nox exchanged wearisome glances.

"Eh, thanks, Gran," said Nox, forcing a smile. "You mentioned ley lines. What are they exactly?"

But it was Fred who answered her this time. "They're ancient lines of power, but no one knows much else about them. Lots of theories, but no hard facts. I mean it's not like you can dig them up and have a prod at them – they're just sort of… _there._" He shrugged. "The Knight Bus uses the ley lines to get about the country and the Demon Parade is supposed to follow a different ley line each year. Witches and wizards used to build important structures on sites called Passing Hallows, where loads of ley lines intersect."

"Like Hogwarts?" Nox asked, and Fred nodded with a broad grin, full of pride.

"_Exactly_ like Hogwarts."

"This house is built on a particularly strong Passing Hallows," Lady Elphuna added, "which is why the Ministry opted to keep Gudrun's foul creations here. They believed there was no safer place for them and no witch or wizard more suited to look after them, for we are a collector of fine and unusual artefacts. Indeed, we are the head of the Department of Antiquities. The things I keep are too old, too dangerous, too odd for the Ministry. But here has become a bad place for such things." She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at the _Humanis Piscis_.

"Why's that?" asked Nox.

"Because the Knight Bus and the Demon Parade are not the only things to travel along ley lines these days," the witch replied, her red lips setting in a grim line. "We have been concerned for the state of the ley lines and Passing Hallows since the Last War. Voldemort did a lot more damage than is visible and the ley lines have been warped by baddened magic. We fear the dark is rising and Gudrun and her followers are taking advantage of it. Those on Passing Hallows are most at risk."

Nox stammered, "Merlin said Salazar constructed tunnels underneath London. I'd hazard a guess they run along ley lines too." Her face turned pale as she looked at Fred who swore loudly.

"Blimey, then there must be loads of lines cutting underneath the city," he exclaimed. "If they turn bad, the whole city will…" he trailed off, his thoughts turning to Diagon Alley, to the Ministry, to George. He gripped his knees, his knuckles turning opaque.

Lady Elphuna nodded her head sombrely, though she seemed distracted by something beyond the walls of the Aquarium. "Shortly before you arrived, the Hob learned of signs in London. Four bodies were discovered on the Thames." She stared at the shoal of _Humanis Piscis_, whose human eyes stared mournfully into her clockwork eye. The witch's voice grew distant as she murmured, "The blackness of the water whispers in our ears a tale of death. It is a city of shadows and layers. London is doomed. That is the tale the Thames tells. London is at War." Suddenly her head jolted up and she fixed Nox with a stony stare. "The deaths on the Thames should lead you to your next shard. Hurry now."

"But we still have so much to ask you," Nox protested, but the golden lion-footed chair had risen and was already blundering towards the door with Lady Elphuna astride.

Before she left the Department for Magical Antiquities, Fred shot a fleeting last glance at the tank where the _Humanis Piscis_ dwelled, but the waters were deep and dark, and empty once more.

At the threshold of the_ House of Sometimes Intolerance_, Nox stood in front of her great grandmother's chair awkwardly. She thought of the way Mrs Weasley would squeeze the life out of her children whenever they visited or left The Burrow, but Lady Elphuna was not like Mrs Weasley. Not every mother loved their child.

The witch cast Nox a cool, appraising look, the clockwork eye ticking louder than ever, and said, "You may not have noticed, but the winter has lasted far long than is natural. We believe the Winter Solstice never came. Gudrun is slowing time and when it has come to a complete stop, she will have her wish."

"She'll have conquered death," Fred finished, darkly. "Cheery business, really."

Nox remained quiet, recalling the warning Merlin had left her: _"You must remember that most important law of nature, little knight. Your friend, George Weasley, will try to break that law. You cannot let that happen…"_

As Fred turned to leave, Nox leant towards her grandmother awkwardly as if she were going to hug her, but lost nerve at the last minute under the witch's clockwork gaze. She jerked away, her face flushed, and muttered gruffly, "Are you sure you'll you be safe here, Gran? Maybe… Maybe you'd be better off staying with us for a while?" she said, promptly ignoring Fred's angry squawk.

But Lady Elphuna straightened her back and sniffed haughtily. "So long as the Hob can hold back the dark, we will be fine," she said and nodded her beaky head towards the gate where an oddly familiar black raven was sitting, cleaning its feathers with almost catlike elegance.

Nox took this as her grandmother's way of saying goodbye, so she set off down the icy garden path where Fred was floating palely against the old mossy wall, prodding at the Hob with a mischievous grin. Something jolted through her, prickling her cheeks. Even though her head was swimming with information, their situation worse than ever and the air felt so cold that every breath stung like a hundred needles in her chest, she still felt the impact of Fred's words_, '…bloody marvellous… just the way she is.'_

Then Lady Elphuna's crisp voice cut through the cold towards her like a knife, slashing the words from her thoughts. "You do know your father is dead, Gertrude. We feel it is time you stopped chasing ghosts."

Nox stopped in her tracks, the breath freezing in her lungs. The little colour remaining in her face drained from it. She looked for a moment as though she would quite like to hit Lady Elphuna. Then she nodded silently, slipped her hands into the pockets of her navy blue great coat, and hurried on. She did not meet Fred's eyes when she rejoined him at the gate.

"Nox –"

"We'd better hurry if we're going to catch that bus," she interrupted quickly, cutting him off in a voice of determined calm. "It's a long walk back to London."

**oOo**

Further into the forest of books, the wood was made of black columns rising from a frosty white carpet. The more they walked, the larger the library became. The old stone walls and ceiling were nowhere to be seen; instead, above their heads dark snow clouds gathered. George shivered as the first snowflakes began to trickle down, and blew hot breath onto his knuckles.

"It's even snowing here," he muttered as they crossed a stream of frozen words, the icy letters splintering underfoot.

"Can you hear the books whispering?" asked Luna.

George nodded darkly. When he first heard the voices he thought they might have belonged to the mice skittering amongst the trees. But when he listened – _really_ listened – he could hear other things amongst those voices: the groan of ghost ships crossing stormy seas, the clinking of harnesses, the whistle of a steam train. All met in the woods in a strange haunting cacophony; a wood between the worlds between the pages of books.

_"__…Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice…"_

The skeleton mouse skittered onwards through the snow, leaving a trail of tiny footprints in its wake.

_"People walk by and they don't know the truth... That the house is a fake. It's a façade, an enclosure with no room, no interior."_

"…_all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick…"_

The snow began to fall faster and George began to worry that they were blundering further and further into an endless forest. The mouse seemed to know where it was going, but he was hopelessly lost. Worst of all was the quiet. With the snow came an unbroken winter silence, muffling their footsteps. Talking somehow felt forbidden. Even the whispering books seemed to lower their voices to an even softer whisper.

_"…__Don't you think it right__ I should go and see my mother,__ whom I left on her own __in the wood called the Waste Forest?"_

They followed the mouse, twisting into new avenues with more trees and branches packed and lined with books. Everything was black and white, high trees and falling snow. And then one whispering voice caught his attention.

"_A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled up inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special…"_

"Harry," George breathed and he paused to touch the copper coloured leather binding of the whispering book, but the moment his fingers brushed the spine the book fell silent, as if it knew it was being eavesdropped on. He looked around at the neighbouring books along the branches of the Elder tree where Harry's life was being written and retold. Was his life here somewhere? Was Fred's still being written or had it stopped when he died?

Luna watched him carefully, tilting her head slowly, before breaking the tense silence. "I wonder if these books write down everything that happens or if everything that is written down happens instead."

"Maybe it's both," George replied quietly, stroking the spine of Harry Potter's written life.

Luna rocked on her heels and smiled serenely. "I wonder if my book is writing down what I'm saying right now. And whether someplace else someone is reading it in another library, with even more books."

"Blimey, Luna, you'll give me a headache if you continue on like that." He dropped his hand from the book and turned to grin at her, and almost jumped at the look on her face. "What is it?" he asked urgently.

"Something's not right," she said. The mouse had stopped too, cocking its skull head from side to side as if listening for something. Then it turned, looked at them and froze; or no, George thought, horrified; not at them, but at _him_.

There was a noise like chattering teeth behind them, like a thousand bones rattling against the wind. Before George and Luna could turn, hundreds of mice skeletons dashed past their feet as if the hounds of hell were on their tails and George realised with a sickening horror that whatever they were running from was on the path behind them.

"What in Merlin's-"

"George, look!" Luna pointed at his pocket. There was a tiny hole in his bottle green jacket. He yanked the book from his pocket and held it towards her for inspection. Inky words were unravelling and trickling like muddy water, but instead of forming a puddle of sentences on the white forest floor, they came to life, slithering back down the path they had come; forming together, gathering strength to strike like a snake.

"Any idea what it is?" George asked, and Luna nodded.

"A book wyrm. They burrow into books and chew up all the words so they go all funny, and-"

"Eh, that's all I need to know," he said, pulling a face.

George felt the skeleton's tiny claws digging into him as it ran up his trouser leg and onto his shoulder where it perched, twitching nervously. Back down the path they had come, something was moving. The branches creaked and swished in nervous anticipation above their heads. An evil-seeming wind gushed towards them, whipping up snow and loose pages.

"Get in front of me, Luna," George said quietly, and Luna obeyed, keeping her eyes on the dark, slithering mass on the path. "When I tell you to run, run. Head back to the Un-door."

Luna nodded silently and they began to back away, but the enormous book wyrm reared the thick trunk of its body high in the air, its skin glistening with scaly words. Its tongue flickered, tasting the air, dripping fangs bared. Then it lunged.

"Come on!" Grabbing her elbow, George fired a spell at the creature and pulled Luna deeper into the woods. They darted between the trees, trying to evade the wyrm by dodging from tree to tree, floundering rather than running in the deep snow drifts. The shadow of the book wyrm wheeled over them, lunging at their heels as they plunged deeper into the forest, firing spells wildly over their shoulders. A stunning spell hit the beast dead centre and shrieking it toppled back into the woods, but George didn't stop.

"I don't much fancy sticking around to see if the great ugly bugger's still moving," he said grimly, pulling Luna on. "Let's move while we can!"

Finally they came to the end of the trees and stumbled into an open clearing. The clearing was perfectly circular and marked by seven gaunt, misshapen fingers of stone. Runes, Pagan rings and characters from alphabets long forgotten to human memory adorned the megaliths, but something else drew George's attention. In the centre of the stone circle, a bleeding spear stood on its tip, perfectly balanced. There were words written down its length and as he stared, they seemed to reform before his eyes to read in shining letters: 'Do as you wish.'

There was something otherworldly about the spear, something that spoke of old magic, much older than anything George had encountered before.

The woods crashed behind them. Suddenly, Luna shoved him hard just as the enormous book wyrm emerged from the trees and launched towards them. Surprised, George stumbled and fell his length in the wet snow. He felt the ground shudder as the huge serpent landed in the stone circle, but it did not come after him. He watched in horror as Luna, pinned against one of the stone megaliths, raised her trembling wand hand to the beast. At the same moment, the mouse skeleton, still clinging to his shoulder, nipped at his remaining ear. George turned and grit his teeth; he knew in an instant what he had to do and his hand was wrapped around the spear before he'd even ordered his legs to move. The book wyrm sprang. The spear flew through the air. It struck the back of the beast's head and at once the stone circle was aflame with an astounding golden brilliance. The book wyrm exploded and letters began to rain down in a golden shower, swivelling to form images both familiar and new.

_ "Winter. A night of frost and hard moon… Salazar made no attempt at hiding himself as he crossed the fens towards the man he was going to kill__,"_ the words whispered and as they did, the scene formed around them, visible as day. George could see the marshy fens – no, he thought, _Islington_. This was Islington in London, the place of Weasley Manor, over one thousand years ago.

This was the night Salazar Slytherin murdered his twin.

As George came to this conclusion, Salazar's twin whispered into view. Sol was sitting on the trunk of an upturned tree. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, and carried a small seax at his hip and an easy smile on his face. In the silver moonlight, he almost looked like a ghost.

"I thought you might show," Sol greeted him, standing. "Have you come to kill me then, brother?"

George's eyes fell to the dagger in Salazar's hand, its silver blade glimmering red, highlighting the goblin craftsmanship: a serpent forming an "S" with an apple in its mouth, its body pierced by an arrow. The Slytherin crest. Salazar crept nearer and the golden words rained faster. The smile on Sol's face waned.

"My fear for you outweighs my fear of the knife in your hand. I see it in your eye, brother. All your unhappiness to come, all the tears, all the heartbreak and the bloodshed. I may die tonight, but your death will last a great deal longer than mine."

George could do nothing but stand and watch as Salazar moved like a snake towards his twin. Raising his right hand, the hand that held the serpent knife now lying on George's own desk, the wizard cut Sol's throat, drawing his life out like a poison. Blood splashed against the white snow lying on the stone circle and the scene dissolved as Sol's body crumpled to the ground.

Another memory reformed around the stone circle. George was now standing half in the snowy library and half on a hillside overgrown with purple heather. Hogwarts castle stood tall and proud in the distance, but not as he knew it; it seemed both old and new at the same time, as if it had just been made. To his left he could see Luna crouching by the megalith, her round eyes wide with wonder. To his right sat Salazar Slytherin, thin, sallow-faced with a neatly trimmed beard. He was hunched over an easel, his brush hand working fastidiously.

"Wouldn't you rather paint something more interesting?" came Helga Hufflepuff's voice, a mocking lilt to it. "Like a landscape or… I don't know, even a sodding tulip?"

He paused and for a moment Helga thought he had ignored her. Then he said quietly, "I'd rather paint something more real."

A smirk graced her lips. "Is that another way of calling me fat?" Salazar looked quite flustered by this comment, but Helga only laughed; it was a loud, good natured laugh, straight from the belly. "Put that silly face away, I'm only joking. I know fine well I'm beautiful. Obviously I'm your only option." Helga grinned as she said it, as if she knew she was too plain, too plump, too strong to ever be considered beautiful. She twiddled her thumbs and tried to get comfortable on the boulder Salazar had instructed her to sit on. Behind her the lake glittered in the bright sunshine. "It's not like you to come out of your hole in the day," she said, smiling serenely. "Maybe we can find you a nice wood nymph to paint-"

"Wood nymphs are native to Rome."

"A Veela, then-"

"Normandy."

"Huldra-"

"Norway." He put down his brush and narrowed his dark eyes at her. "And you call yourself a witch. Stop moving."

Helga made a rude gesture at him while he wasn't looking, then settled into a comfortable pose with her hands clasped lightly in her lap. A gentle smile came upon her face as she watched him work.

"Did you know that when a Veela woman falls in love with a man she is bound to him until he dies?"

"Why?"

"Damned if I know." Helga leaned her chin on her hand and watched the water lap against the shore at the bottom of the hill. "But it's sort of a nice idea, isn't it? Being together forever."

"You're too romantic," he said. "Quiet. I'm concentrating."

She glanced at him askance, then looked at her feet, feeling suddenly self-conscious, too aware of herself. "Helena is more suited to this sort of thing, you know. She has a better respect for the arts and is a much greater beauty. Perhaps you should have asked her."

"If I wanted to paint her, I would have asked," he said tightly.

"But you wanted to paint me because I'm 'real'," she repeated, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Funny sort of thing to say."

Salazar's brush paused. "It is?"

Helga seemed to catch the note of self-consciousness in his tone. Her expression softened and she watched him, and continued to watch him even as the scene dissolved and disappeared as the golden letters that strung it together fell apart and reformed into another image, then another and another. They swam in and out existence as the golden letters swirled around the stone circle, gathering speed. George helped Luna to her feet as the foundations of Hogwarts were laid down around them and the Founders Wars against Gudrun raged, and Salazar Slytherin fell in love with Helga Hufflepuff, and her brother Puck lost his soul to the Snow Witch; all these were swept around in a golden whirlwind around the stone circle, gathering speed with no where else to go. Suddenly, Luna pulled the book from George's pocket and threw it to the ground. The binding burst open and the golden words poured into their rightful pages.

Before the last few sentences trickled away, one last image formed in the air. Two figures: the first, Helga Hufflepuff, her face drawn and impossibly sad, the second, an aged wizard with wolfish features. Both were speaking, but the words were lost as the last fragments of Salazar's life trickled back into his pages.

For a moment they could only stare in muted silence at the book. Then George fell to his knees, panting for breath.

"B-Blimey…" he wheezed. "How'd you know to do that?"

Luna blinked, puzzled. "Do what?"

"Throw the book down like that."

She gave him an odd look as if the answer was obvious. "Every written word needs a home. They can't very well hang around for us to gawk at them all day."

He grinned. "Well it's a damn good thing your mind works the way it does, Lu." He bent over and picked up the book, blowing flecks of snow from its coppery front cover. It was a strange thing knowing he held Salazar Slytherin's life in his hands.

"They really did love each other, Salazar and Helga," Luna said wistfully, setting the bleeding spear back on its end in the centre of the stone circle. "I wonder what went wrong."

George raised his eyebrows. "How'd you mean?"

"Salazar and Helga must have had children separately," Luna explained, dreamily. "Tom Riddle was Slytherin's descendant and Hepzibah Smith was Hufflepuff's." She looked at the book in his hands and smiled sadly. "Sad, isn't it? It's like being shown the ending of a story when you've just started reading the beginning."

George peered at the leather bound book in his hands. He couldn't help but wonder if the war had been responsible for separating Salazar and Helga. Even so, this book was their best chance of defeating the White Witch.

"Come on," he said, getting stiffly to his feet. "We've found what we came here for. Let's get back."

Suddenly Luna gasped and her hand flew up to her mouth. "I remember!"

He started. "Remember what?"

"It was in the Ministry, years ago in the Hall of Prophecy. I only heard a very little. You see, we were attacked by Bellatrix back when she was alive and some other of Voldemort's followers. I think Draco's father might have been there actually," she said conversationally. "There were lots of glass orbs containing prophecies all around us. Bellatrix smashed one and two figures emerged: an old man and a young woman. I think it could have been the same people we saw in that last image. No," she added, nodding firmly. "I'm sure it was them."

"Can you remember what they said?" George asked eagerly.

Luna's expression lost its dreamy quality then, turning troubled. "I remember them because their words frightened me." Luna screwed up her face in a thoughtful expression, then carefully repeated what she had heard the night she had accompanied Harry Potter to the Ministry. "'At the solstice will come a new...and none will come after.'"

**oOo**

Fred and Nox hadn't talked much on the way back to London, and the silence between them was heavy. By the time they entered Weasley Manor's garden, Nox was nearly overjoyed to see a light on in the living room window. With any luck Luna would still be around. Nox would have given anything for the young witch's endless prattle to ease the awkward quiet that had settled over her and Fred.

She pulled out an old fashioned key for the front door and was about to slot it into the lock when she felt an icy touch on her shoulder. She jerked away harder than she meant to and saw the brief hurt on Fred's face.

He pulled his hand back, scratching the back of his neck instead. "Here, Nox... Look..."

She almost stopped breathing. Her heart hurt. Words choked in her mouth. Suddenly she wanted to cry; to sob as unselfconsciously and heartbreakingly as a little girl. She looked desperately at Fred who was still fumbling for words, but she knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do that would make everything okay again. Her shoulders drooped and she ran a hand through her hair, as if giving up.

"I couldn't tell you," she said, and the emotion in her words surprised him. "I couldn't, Fred. Of course I know he's dead. My dad would never have left me because of some stupid debt. He was a lot of things but he was never a coward and he loved me. But I was supposed to protect him. _I_ was supposed to be the one looking out for _him_." A shudder went through her, and she sniffed and rubbed her wet nose on the cuff of her great coat. "I couldn't admit it. If I said it out loud to you or George, it'd make it real, you know? Final. But he's dead and it's my fault. I should have... I-I don't even know…" Tears began to roll freely now. Her nose prickled painfully, but this time she didn't wipe it. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides, shoulders heaving.

Fred didn't move. He'd never been much use around crying girls and something about crying Nox was ten times worse. He fidgeted uneasily and took a step towards her, but he couldn't bring himself to reach out and touch her. It felt wrong some how, as if that contact would be a step too far. Besides, he thought grimly, that mushy stuff - that wasn't them. If he held her, what good would that do? There was no sweet warm blood running through his veins. What she needed was George who was warmer and friendlier, and talked to everyone equally in a way that made you feel good about yourself, even if you were a right rat. All Fred could do was gape stupidly as she grit her teeth and berated herself for sobbing quietly into the collar of her coat.

And suddenly, Fred felt angry with her. And he knew it was a selfish kind of anger because crying was fine, but this silent sobbing caused something in him to hurt and punctured the bubble of unchanging safety he had imagined around Weasley Manor. His hands shot towards her shoulders and held them as firmly as he could, trying to imagine and remember what it was like to hold something and really feel it. When she raised her chin, he looked at her sternly.

"If you're going to cry, you're going to do it properly," he said, his bright eyes fixed firmly on her own. "None of this crummy snivelling. I mean blimey, you cry like a girl. Even Percy could do better than that."

Nox muffled something between a laugh and a sob in her collar, then wiped at her nose. Her face was turning an ugly blotchy red and her eyes were swollen, but her gaze was clear as she looked at him. "Fred, listen, I tried... I tried to get the police involved, but they couldn't help. Couldn't or wouldn't. No one would. Everyone said Edward just up and legged the country due to financial problems - too many debts, too many angry lenders. And there was proof to back it up, but it was all too easy. All too tidy. I knew something had gone badly wrong. I knew he was-" she stopped shortly, a faint gasp coming from her throat, then shook her head firmly and steeled her jaw. "I started looking for some trace of him. Caithion came with me. We went everywhere… And then-"

"You found the wrong ghost," Fred supplied, with a wry smile. "Look here, if you're trying to convince me you only agreed to work here in the hope you'd find a lead or something, think again. I've got you sussed. I know fine well you only wanted to look upon my spiffing good looks."

"Spiffing in that I can see through them?" she muttered. "Shouldn't you be making me feel better right now?"

"I am making you feel better," Fred defended.

Nox put a hand to her forehead with an exasperated sigh. "You really are bloody awful at this stuff, aren't you?"

"Yes alright, alright-"

"I mean God knows how you dealt with all the weeping girls whose hearts you broke."

"Here, don't get snarky with me just because you look like you just fell out of a tree," Fred retorted with a roll of his eyes. "And besides, this is different. I let George deal with the others."

Nox shook her head, smiling lightly, and her shoulders relaxed a little bit. She looked at Fred, his pearly white body fluid as smoke, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Somehow she was glad it was him and not George or Luna, even if Fred was completely rubbish when it came to comforting people. After all, she wasn't sure what she needed was a shoulder to cry on, or someone to hold her. Just having someone to listen was enough.

She leaned away from him, clearing her throat. "I thought that if I couldn't find out what happened to Edward, I'd continue his life's work, even if I didn't believe in it." She looked at him, her expression wry. "Funny, isn't it? I mean I've been chasing ghosts for years, but I never expected to find a real one."

"Guess you got lucky," he chuckled and pinched her cheeks, and almost flinched when one of her hands covered his.

"Guess I did." Their eyes locked and the smile that had started to show on her face disappeared.

He smiled weakly. "You know Nox, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were making a declaration of-"

He stopped as Nox let go of his hand, tilted her chin and, to both their surprise, kissed him full on the lips.

A small voice in the back of her head told her they must have looked ridiculous. Her face was red and blotchy with salty tears, and she'd closed her eyes before she kissed him so she could not even tell if she'd kissed his lips for Fred was so cold and insubstantial, like icy water, but Nox could not care a damn. It took a moment before she realised he had not kissed her back.

She jolted away, swaying unsteadily. Her head pounded and she tried to look somewhere, anywhere, but at the look on Fred's face; the look of surprise, confusion and worst of all guilt. Nox knew at that moment that whatever she had felt in that split second, he had not felt the same.

"Nox," he began, his voice sullen and low.

Before he could say anything else, Nox opened the door and walked inside.

**oOo**

* * *

**A/N:** Hurr! Cheap cliffhanger. Couldn't resist it. Hey, it's about time I got some romance down. Heck, I think that chapter should tide everyone's demands for romance in TVPD for a while (sorry if it was too fluffy, I'm rubbish at writing romance).


End file.
